Dark Side of the Moon
by InnerFathoms
Summary: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charles Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near.
1. Acquaintances

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

**By**: InnerFathoms

**Setting**: A few months post-'Ascension'

**Summary**: On Rogue's eighteenth birthday, she is unexpectedly taken out to enjoy a night on the town. Upon choosing a place to dine, Rogue and Remy run into Scott and Jean, reluctantly accepting an invitation to join the couple for a double date. The outing started innocently enough...but a girl named Carol Danvers, a newly-formed mutant persecution group called the Friends of Humanity, and the death of an X-men at the hands of someone 'sinister' only begins to scratch the surface that is the metaphorical iceberg bearing down on the mutants of Bayville. With Apocalypse gone, other mutants are willing to step out and come forth from both sides of the line, while the prophetic glimpses observed by Professor Charles Xavier slowly fortify into a reality. Thus begins the longest night of their lives, only a prelude to the darkest hours yet to come.

**Discretions**: A great deal of canon characters and plots are prepared to be incorporated into the story. Though I will likely take a few liberties, as the Evo world and comicverse differ greatly, I will try to stay true in many aspects. Most changes I will list either here or in the **Author's Note** at the bottom.

**Pairings**: Rogue/Remy, Scott/Jean, Scott/Rogue hints (New and forementioned couples will be listed and grouped by chapters.)

**Genre-Rating**: Romance/Action, Adventure/Angst-Teen

**Disclaimer**: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I'm not making any profits.

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**_Chapter I: Acquaintances_**

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The restaurant off 5th Street North in downtown Bayville looked even more crowded from the inside than the outside. Rogue noted this without much effort, finding more important things to keep her mind on…and her hands on.

A first date made some girls nervous, klutzy, or worse, but to her, a first date was both new and exciting, albeit just a twinge of anxiety. Who could blame her, the girl that could not touch…at least, not in the way of intimacy? Though clichéd, the thought of being dropped off at home, well before midnight, sharing an innocent kiss under the door stoop and beneath the moonlight had a simple charm. Of course, Rogue was _far_ from anything resembling that scenario, given the fact that she lived in the same house as her date, that her date would, given the chance, do much more than just kiss, and the obvious, plain as day fact that even an innocent kiss, the slightest peck, would knock the potential beau right off his feet. No night would be complete without your date's thoughts, feelings, and memories spinning through your head like a warped carousel.

It was, truly and foremost, Rogue's first real date, better late than never. On her eighteenth birthday, of all days. However, could she really ask for a better date?

Pausing at the front of the restaurant to allow the flow of people exiting the building to pass in front of them, Rogue used a sideways glance to size up her man of the night with the utmost discreetness. He was tall, almost topping her by half a foot, slim but muscular with sinewy muscles rippling beneath his tight clothing. His exposed skin was much tanner than hers, and his tousled mane shined dark amber in the glow of the overhead lamp beneath the restaurant's awning. The shadows created by the light framed his face and accentuated the contours of his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones, though it was his eyes that stood out more prominent than any other facial feature. Scarlet irises bathing in black pools; they were haunting, arousing, and mystifying, all at once. They were the only tell tale aspect that Rogue's date was a mutant, and they were easy to conceal with any pair of sunglasses or shades. Her date wasn't like that though, didn't prefer to cover up who he really was, didn't feel the need to conform to the rest of society's normalcy. Or maybe he was just lazy, or maybe he thought shades looked stupid with the night sky coasting in from above. It wasn't a question that itched her mind if not asked, and truthfully, she wouldn't want those eyes to be hidden. One smoldering look could melt her defenses and inhibitions, but the opportunity to take in such dark beauty was worth the risk.

As the last of the restaurant's exodus subsided, Rogue's date held the door for her and allowed her passage with a wink. She gave a dubious raise of an eyebrow, but then moved on by anyhow. The narrowness of the threshold forced her to brush by him, her shoulder whispering against the curve of his chest muscles, his musky, backwater scent filling her nostrils. Aftershave and body spray followed, but neither was as captivating as his natural cologne. He exhaled into her ear as she slipped by him, his hot breath tickling her and sending a shiver down her back. The door closed behind them and Rogue's date was right on her heels, herding her forwards and towards the hostess's stand in the makeshift foyer of the restaurant.

The hostess stood behind her designated stand, tall and slender with an attractive, baby-cute face and honey-colored tresses falling onto her shoulders. She was dressed in cashmere and denim, a stylish combination that fitted her. Two menus appeared in her hands and a smile garnished her pretty face. The name tag read _Carol_.

"How are you folks doing tonight? Just the two of you?"

"Yes," Rogue answered, smiling politely.

"Table or booth?"

Rogue chose the former and heard no protests from her date. A succulent smile adorned Carol's soft features as she guided her arm in the direction for them to move, leading them into the masses of restaurant goers. They weaved between tables and headed towards the back of the building, receiving a few too many but still inevitable gasps from other patrons. Rogue knew not everyone could appreciate those red-on-black eyes, and she didn't blame the people for mistaking their appeal. The majority of people don't like what they don't understand, and fear of the unknown fueled most of the mutant-haters in the increasingly turbulent city of Bayville. The Professor's infrequent reminders of the fellow Bayville denizens' attitudes had augmented into constant warnings, and his inquiries often left Rogue feeling bitter towards the general populace of the town. Obviously, saving the world just wasn't good enough for these people.

"Is this good?" Carol the ever-smiling hostess asked, and Rogue was about to respond with a "yes", as the section of booths was dimly lit with an amber glow and far enough away from the mainstream crowd of the building, when something caught in her throat.

Carol gave her a quizzical look, but Rogue's focus was instead on the couple in the booth juxtaposed to their desire booth, less than four feet of aisle space separating the two tables. A brunette and a redhead sat to the right, submerged in deep conversation before their drinks had even arrived. With a heavy heart weighed down by anxious expectations, Rogue counted the seconds before the redhead turned to her left and spotted silent Rogue standing only a foot away.

Jean Grey's eyes lit up like the stars outside. "_Rogue!_"

It sounded like a cheer, as if the Mississippian's presence was the highlight of the night. Scott Summers was joining the long-since dubbed "Miss Perfect", a tiny smirk growing wider as his ruby gaze landed on Rogue.

Rogue cringed inside as her stomach flip-flopped. Days of her crush on the preppy hunk turned macho leader had long since past, yet they were still not completely forgotten. Though, the man standing behind her would likely clear away any residual feelings towards Scott.

"…Scott, Jean," she managed, adding a weak smile to her sorry excuse for a salutation. Her date stood behind her and out of the couple's line of sight, which was probably a good thing for the moment.

Remy LeBeau, aka Gambit, alias Swamp Rat, _et alias_ the Cajun, had been the least fitting recruit to the wave of new mutants to join the X-men post-Apocalypse. The newest members included Angel, Colossus, Havok, a returning Boom Boom, Jubilee, and Wolfsbane, and also the loveable Louisiana man himself. The supposedly reformed thief had immediately hit it off with newly-appointed field team leader Cyclops, and not in the friendly kind of way.

They were polar opposites, one serious, strict, and competitive; the other humorous, laid-back, and cunning. They traded quips more than anything else, and bore a relationship akin to that of Wolverine and Sabretooth, sans the continuous growling and property damage. Danger Room sessions were a no-go for Gambit at first, until he realized he could find ways to upstand his visor-wearing leader. The Cajun mutant worked better alone, always had and always will, he'd stated more than once. Mr. Teamwork couldn't function with a loner, and the two constantly rubbed each other the wrong way, mostly during the DR sessions. And being the most charming of the males, Remy was quick to serenade a certain redheaded telepath, simply to provoke her beau and test Cyclops's temper limits. More than once they'd gotten into a brawl, Gambit being the only guy besides Avalanche to get inside Cyclops's head and awaken his reckless, rash side. Jean often times played peacekeeper between the boys, while Rogue ranked among eager spectators.

As long as Gambit was occupied with irking Cyclops or charming the pants off other _femmes_ around the mansion, Rogue had peace. All other times, he was around _her_, worse than a stalker, clingier than a younger sibling. For all purposes of keeping her sanity, Rogue had finally agreed to let the Cajun charmer take her out for a night on the town. After her acceptance, he had casually informed her that it had taken one hundred-eighty-five "no's" before finally receiving a "yes."

Oddly, she had never imagined him as the one to do the asking. Remy seemed like the kind of guy who always received the begging and the pleas from the women who wanted him. A man so confident in his appearance and in the attraction he wielded, and such a cool demeanor, did not compute with Rogue. Maybe it was because she played hard to get, and the Cajun liked the challenge. Still, something wasn't settling right in Rogue's mind, or her gut…And a girl's intuition could be her saving grace.

"Rogue. _Gambit._" Scott's eyebrows disappeared beneath his shades, a sign of a furrowing brow and disapproval. His failure to use Remy's real name instead of his codename was the least unfriendly thing he could do. There had been plenty worse.

"_Summers._ Nice ta see dat y' still got dat stick up yo' ass, secure as ever," Remy said, his tone casual and just the right pitch of nonchalance to draw a sneer from his target.

"Hi, Rogue. Hi, Remy." Jean beamed after giving a concerned glance at Scott; her efforts at being friendly were not well-received from her beau across the table. Ever the pacifist, the redhead was quick to bat an eye and avoid any conflict, confrontation, or clash whenever possible. The potency of her powers, tied in with her emotions, was probably what led her to consistently avoid disturbances. People-pleaser or not, she did have a lot to be cautious about; sessions with the Professor had begun only days after the fall of Apocalypse. Somehow, Rogue believed, the mutant patriarch had seen some distressing visions while under Apocalypse's mind control, and Jean had popped up in some disconcerting context within the montage.

Having noticed the hesitancy of their hostess, Jean blurted, "They can sit with us!"

"But Jean**-----**" Scott stammered, silenced by his girlfriend's dismissive wave.

"Oh…alright, that's cool." Stepping in between Rogue and Remy, Carol's radiant smile faded a peg as her eyes darted from Scott's ruby quartz shades to Remy's inhuman eyes. She placed the menus on the table and retreated a step. "A waitress will be with you shortly."

"Thanks," Jean said, but the hostess had already pivoted on her heels and initiated a brisk pace of walking, disappearing from around the bend of the booth section in a matter of seconds. Rogue frowned, not surprised, but still curious towards the girl's reaction.

As Scott and Jean slid inwards on their seats to accompany the growth of their party from two to four, the telekinetic asked Remy, "So, what's your secret?"

He mustered a confused frown and followed it with a zesty smirk for good measure. Concealing a blush, Jean's eyelashes fluttered. Scott's face flustered, too, though not with the cherry color of shyness. His nostrils flared and he glared through his fiery lenses.

"I mean," Jean reiterated, "how did you get Rogue here to go out on a date?"

"We're not," Rogue spat, hushed and hurried. After glancing across the table at Remy, _she_ was the one to conceal a blush this time. "Ah meant that we're just doin' an experiment ta see where things might go."

"Y' ain't kiddin' anyone, _cherie_." Remy tilted his chin and nodded in Rogue's direction while looking at the other couple. "Guess who's turnin' eighteen t'night."

Jean gasped and covered her mouth. "Oh, _Rogue_, I can't believe we**-----**"

"Left your present in the car," Scott interrupted, giving an awkward smirk. Jean's head spun in his direction, her eyes wide, but Scott gave her the notion to calm down, and they exchanged facial expressions and wordless innuendo until Rogue intervened, ignoring the pang of hurt setting into her heart.

"Ya don' have ta hide anything. Ah know y'all forgot about it." Scott and Jean paused, their heads turning in Rogue's direction, their mouths agape with guilt. "Really, it's fine. Kitty bought me a nice blouse an' Dr. McCoy gave me a free physical and wrote me a sweet poem. Ororo's gift was a rack of magnolias ta remind me of home, and Logan handed me the most comfortable and stylish leather gloves Ah've ever seen." She stalled a moment to savor the looks on Scott and Jean's faces. They were priceless as ever. "Oh, an' the Professor wrote me a check for a thousand dollars." Jaws hit the table and Rogue giggled. "Sorry, only kiddin'. He did buy me a very nice necklace. So ya see, Ah already got enough wonderful gifts from plenty of people. Don' feel like either of ya are obligated ta do the same."

"We can at least pick up the dinner tab," Jean conceded, her tone apologetic.

"_Bon _(Good), 'cause Remy ain't pocketin' s'much cash lately. Ex-thieves don' make s'much as they used t'."

"We'll split the bill," Scott said. "I'm sure even an _ex_-thief could pay for his own meal. I'll cover you, Rogue."

"It's the least we could do," Jean added, squeezing Rogue's gloved hand in both of her own. "I just feel so stupid for forgetting. I'm usually not this dense."

"It's no big," Rogue chided, reaching for the menu. "Nobody's perfect, Jeannie."

Rogue hid a smug smile behind the menu, shielding it from Jean's view. It wasn't everyday the girl messed up something. Things had changed and Rogue reminded herself not to be so self-righteous; Jean was different now, more easy-going than she used to be. Besides, being sanctimonious only left a nasty taste in Rogue's mouth, especially when it was directed at someone as selfless as Jean Grey.

Their waitress finally arrived at the table and took orders. She fell far short in the department of giddiness and smiles where Carol the hostess reigned. A bored but restrained look crossed her face for most of the exchange, but she was efficient enough to write down their drink orders and inform them that she would be back momentarily to take their dinner orders.

As soon as she left, Jean gave an excited whisper. "I heard the food here is supposed to be spectacular!"

"It's got great ambiance," Scott mumbled, resting his head in his hand.

"No, really, it's supposed to be great!"

"Why?" Rogue drawled, "'cause of that _mutants welcome_ sign out in the window?"

Jean sighed, resigned to studying her own menu. "At least I haven't heard anyone cry _muties_ as long as we've been here."

Some of the more fearless, angry citizens of Bayville had discovered how tarnishing the word sounded, how belittling and offending it rolled off the tongue. _Mutant_ sounded almost scientific or possibly polite. _Mutie_ sounded slang and derogatory. The news anchors, newspapers, and politicians chose the latter term. Mayor Edward Kelly and almost everyone else in town felt that the word _mutie_ was more suitable for Bayville's mutant population.

Once the drinks came, Remy nudged Scott in the ribs and asked, "Watchin' yo' weight, Summers?"

He indicated the glass of water with a slice of lemon in front of Scott.

Scott nudged him back hard enough to draw a quiet gasp from the other guy and responded with a tempered _no_.

Rogue stifled a laugh that would've been at Scott's expense, but she left all the provoking to Remy, as he was more than apt for the job.

Feeling obligated to mend a bruised ego, Jean reached out and touched her boyfriend's arm. "Actually, Scott's been working out a little extra lately."

But he was having none of her help, as it would lessen his chances of recapturing his loss of manly pride. Instead, Scott told Jean to switch seats with Remy.

"Why?"

"Just do it, Jean."

The redhead's back stiffened and her eyes narrowed. Despite her rising indignation, she complied, following Rogue out of the booth so Remy could take a spot across from Scott.

With an elbow propped up on the table and a hand extended upwards, Scott challenged the other man to a good ol' arm wrestling match. "Loser buys everyone's dinner."

"_Men_," Jean hissed, and walked off to fume and regain her composure. Remy applied a lopsided grin for Rogue's pleasure, and she ushered him to compete with Scott's challenge.

"Deal," Remy said and placed his elbow on the table and his hand near Scott's. His sly expression became solemn; they grasped each other's hand and initiated their struggle for strength and power, with the cost of a large meal hanging over their heads as motivation to win.

Distractedly, Rogue's eyes caught onto Scott's bulging bicep, the strain of the match making it flex and protrude a vein. The muscle stretched the fabric of his shirt sleeve, the expansion almost too large for the thin material to hold. Rogue remembered to blink, quickly shaking her head to stir the weird thoughts. She placed her hands on her thighs and looked down, a stray white bang falling in between her eyes. She looked up and swiped it away, contemplating on getting a new hairstyle. The sleeve had been pushed up by the expanding muscle, revealing more of the laboring bicep, slightly tanned skin stretched taut over it.

Rogue dropped her head a second time and allowed the hair framing her face to conceal the redness in her cheeks. What was taking Jean so long? Couldn't she hurry back and end the macho display?

She focused on Remy's arm, the skin tanner and the muscle less bulging but more defined. Disgusted with herself for even considering an attraction she still had for Scott Summers, Rogue forwent denial and settled into pensiveness.

A trash can crashed outside.

The noise jarred Rogue from her thoughts and caused her to jump, while the two boys were oblivious to all things around them. Being so close to the back of the building, Rogue was able to hear faint voices in the alleyway adjacent to the restaurant. The myriad of chatter, clattering plates and scraping silverware, of laughter and chomping mouths prevented her from discerning much else.

No other foreign sounds entered Rogue's ears, yet their absence was even more disturbing. Her intuition kicked into overdrive, as blood pounded in her head and queasiness rocked her stomach. The new leather gloves suddenly felt itchy and uncomfortable.

Rogue glanced to her left, towards the front of the building, and spotted a blonde head bobbing past the other booths and tables. Carol turned in her direction for a singular moment, frozen, and then ducked out of view.

A guttural grunt came from behind her. "Ha!" The back of Remy's hand banged the tabletop in defeat. "Guess who's buying everyone din**-----**"

**-----**The explosion ripped through the side of the building, collapsing part of the ceiling and spraying debris like shrapnel. As Rogue opened her mouth to scream, the booth imploded behind her and she was thrust forward like a rag doll, her hip smashing against the wooden table but not stopping her from slamming into the opposite side of the booth, as Remy and Scott disappeared from her line of sight. A fractured moment later, she was numb and staring along the floor, a heavy weight bearing down on her back and restricting her breathing. Dust collected in her throat and something slick touched her cheek. She could not move her head. Her vision swam and a burning pain erupted from near her waist. Her entire world was deathly quiet, her hearing deafened by the calamity and sheer intensity of the detonation.

Then she heard the screams…

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**Author's Note**: And so begins a tale with much promise and of what I hope could be considered epic-proportions! You'll just have to wait and see. Though these two couples will be the forerunners, new and old couples will be introduced eventually and will gain screen (written?) time as well. This chapter marks the first appearance of Carol Danvers (as if it wasn't that obvious) and we'll see how she fits in soon. And for certain purposes, this is clarifying that Carol is not Ms. Marvel (i.e. she's not a superhero yet). She's simply a dainty hostess (or is she?) For future chapters, I will be listing any changes or discrepancies here along with pointing out some of the canons. Expect lots of characters to appear! The spectrum for the X-men, the Brotherhood, non-affiliates, and comic characters should be huge, and I will try hard to give most characters respectful amounts of interest and side plots, but of course, some characters will probably jump to the front of the show. And please bear with me, as my comicverse knowledge is a little shaky, but I will research and try to explain any allusions or canon material here. And, as always, _please review_! Feedback is important to me and very much appreciated! Comment on the writing, the characters, the plot**----**_anything_! I respect any valuable time spent on reviewing, as it will tune me in on how this story is being received. Questions are welcomed as well, and I will try to keep things clear and un-confusing. Thank you to everyone reading this and please remember to review!

**Next Time**: _'Moans of agony and cries of anguish seeped inside her hollowness, filling it to the brim with rage that slowly ebbed away her restraints, causing her muscles to twitch and her head to ache. Jean groaned into her hand, placing it to her face and sniffling. The Professor had warned her of this. In times of turmoil, she was not to give in.'_

Jean, Scott, and Remy's POV on the aftermath. The reasons behind the explosion and those who perpetrated it are revealed, next time in..._Bombarded_.

-fathoms-


	2. Bombarded

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

**By**: InnerFathoms

**Setting**: A few months post-'Ascension'.

**Summary**: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charles Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the "greatest mind in the world" is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.

**Discretions**: Not much canon material here, except for a few things that are pretty easy to recognize. By the way, _italics _indicate stressing or enunciation, or character thoughts. 'These' mean telepathly and psychic communication.

**Pairings**: Scott/Jean, Rogue/Remy, and slight hints at Warren/Jean

**Genre-Rating**: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance

**Disclaimer**: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.

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**_Chapter II: Bombarded_**

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...And were silenced by gunfire.

A trickle of blood poured down the curve of Jean Grey's temple, disappearing into the crimson of her frayed hair. Pain stabbed at her ankle, forcing her to one knee so that she could alleviate some of the strain on the injury. Her palms were up, fingers splayed, telekinetic energy blurring the air in front of her hands as she relinquished her shield.

Her ears were still ringing from the blast.

Soot covered her new blouse.

And Scott's end of a forged telepathic link was distorted. The severance of their mental bond indicated his loss of consciousness.

Had Jean been standing, her knees would've buckled. She forced some semblance into her mind and swallowed the panic rising in her chest. A moment ago she had been so vexed….

…Now all she felt was emptiness.

Moans of agony and cries of anguish seeped inside her hollowness, filling it to the brim with rage that slowly ebbed away her restraints, causing her muscles to twitch and her head to ache. Jean groaned into her hand, placing it to her face and sniffling. The Professor had warned her of this. In times of turmoil, she was not to give in.

Insanity would create more problems than it would solve. She couldn't wipe away all the bad without destroying the good as well.

Not even a week had passed after Apocalypse's apparent defeat before the Professor had Jean undergoing extensive psychic training sessions and a subtle form of therapy. The excuse he hid behind was the fact that she had been psychically exhausted from her mental duel with him while he was under Apocalypse's control. Jean couldn't even remember the encounter, couldn't recall a time when her inhibitions had slipped away.

Gravely, the Professor had informed her that many dark days lie ahead. Jean had known that already, had anticipated it ever since realizing how ungrateful many people were, even after mutants had saved their lives and prevented them from becoming what they feared and abhorred. Yet, she had never heard him inform the other students about their future predicaments. It was a given, yes, but the Professor was always so somber around Jean, as if he was keeping a secret from her that pained his heart every time he neglected to share it with his star pupil.

'_And with a heavy heart, I've seen the dearest of friends become our worst enemies…'_

The line had stuck with her, and not because of the prophetic tone or ambiguity, but because of the trepidation it instilled in Jean's heart, as if that one message had been meant for her alone.

Thus, the weekly and eventually daily sessions. Jean was adamant to refuse the urge to ask what the Professor had meant with his foreboding remark; she trusted that his new tutelage would surely be of help in the future, even if it did keep her in the dark.

Awakened out of her reverie by a particularly close groan, Jean massaged her temples and cleared away the burden of so many thoughts. Action**-----**not deep thinking**-----**was what was needed of her at the moment.

The closest patron to her was a man in a suit, pinned beneath a piece of rubble fallen from the ceiling. Focusing on the object in question instead of the man's terror-ripen face, Jean closed her eyes and lifted the rubble off him with little conscious effort. He coughed and sputtered, but a meek whisper of thanks escaped his parched lips. Jean gave him a soothing touch, wanting to reach out and organize the chaos in his mind.

The whines of the injured carried over to her in a dirge so haunting that it chilled her core. Shivering, convulsing, Jean staggered to her feet and gave the man a comforting smile. He reached for her but understood that her powers were required elsewhere. With a wordless goodbye, Jean parted from him, and ducked beneath some electrical cords to assist more trapped individuals.

The gunfire recommenced a few minutes later, somewhere on the other side of the room from Jean. She gave a backwards glance, tentative in her step as she moved toward a woman with a table atop her back. The gunfire meant that the explosion was not accidental; Jean didn't have a doubt. Whoever had caused the calamity was only using the gunfire as a threat to quiet the vocalizations of pain and discomfort. She couldn't derive much more understanding from the incident. With most of the commotion and voices off in the distance, Jean was determined to occupy herself with saving others until a confrontation came. The anger still broiled her blood, traveling through her veins with fiery intent…

…And Scott. Rogue. Remy. Her stomach twisted with unfulfilled grief, but she knew the three of her friends had a better chance of taking care of themselves than some of these people did.

She lifted the table off the woman and checked her pulse. Unconscious, but still alive. Jean exhaled in relief, hoping that she wouldn't come across any of the deceased. She prayed that there were no casualties, and held out hope that all the wounded would be treated. For some reason, the bomb struck her as a caveat or scare more so than an act of malice. A way to get someone's attention…

People were standing and dispersing from the main entranceway of the restaurant. Jean ducked low but still managed to count about six moving figures, some of them holding guns, some seemingly weaponless, but all of them very able-bodied. Their gazes were cast at the destruction around them, as if they were searching for particulars within the rubble.

'_Why?' Rogue drawled, ''cause of that _mutants welcome_ sign out in the window?'_

Jean's gut continued to twist until she had to gasp. A mutant hate crime wasn't unheard of, but something of this caliber, involving the harm of humans…She wasn't ready to feel responsible for all the agony caused in the restaurant, even if she could justify her own innocence.

The _mutants welcome_ sign had sat in the window for a reason. Though the others didn't know it, Jean knew the restaurant had been bought by Warren Worthington III last month. A mutant who owned an establishment would surely welcome his own kind. Jean dearly hoped that it wasn't the reason behind the explosion.

After freeing and checking on two more people, Jean found herself hiding behind a flimsy wooden structure with one of the moving people standing on the opposite side. Her anger surged and fought against her restraints, causing the wood to rumble. The man on the other side gasped and took some steps away, his feet crunching plaster and splintered wood.

'_Stop it!'_ Jean hissed, struggling for control. The wood stopped shaking, much to her relief, but then it was blown apart by some foreign energy blast, spraying her in the face with fragments of wood. She cried out, rolling backwards in defense and sending a spike of pain shooting through her ankle, strangling her earlier outcry.

The walking man reached for her, but Jean lashed out and carried him off his feet, discarding him on top of a pile of debris.

"_Mutie!_"

The word pierced Jean's heart and made her cringe. Redness flushed her cheeks as indignation crept into her complexion. She withheld her wrath and crawled along the floor, putting as many barriers as possible between her and the other walkers.

That one word confirmed her fearful suspicious. Mutants were to blame for this horror, even if they weren't the ones who perpetrated it.

"Get her!"

"She's heading that way!"

"Don't shoot! Just stun!"

An energy blast dismembered a chair above her head. Another one broke apart a clump of plaster that showered Jean from above and choked her with the dust.

An energy blaster appeared in her line of sight, one hand cupped around it and the other wrapped around the trigger. The obscenity ripped from its owner's hands, probably breaking his trigger finger, and it exploded to bits upon impacting a thick piece of debris.

"Over he**----**!"

Jean silenced the walker with a telekinetic blast, knocking him out of sight. She continued crawling, ducking under tables and climbing over rubble, like a mouse trapped in a frightful maze. Were they testing her? Taunting her?

The ceiling shuddered above her. Jean clutched her head and capped her powers before they brought down the entire building structure. Small things escaped her attempt at suppressing her powers: a chair, a table, a piece of plaster. One subconsciously directed projectile slammed one of the walkers in the chest. His gun went off and blasted a hole in the ceiling.

She had no idea where she was going or what section of the restaurant she was in. Had she strayed far from her table before the blast? What direction were her friends in?

'_Scott? Scott!'_

Nothing; the connection was still inaccessible. That meant Scott was still blacked out or…

Jean steeled herself and refused to "what if" anything. Innocent people were in danger and cold-blooded fiends were prowling the restaurant searching for mutant prey.

"Jean…" A groan came from her left, beneath a den of debris.

The voice was a whisper but recognizable. Jean gasped and crawled towards the voice, finding the restaurant owner and fellow mutant known as Angel lying beneath the rubble. "_Warren._"

She disassembled the chunks of rubble with her TK and scrambled toward the fallen, winged mutant. The back of his trench coat had been ripped, exposing the snow white feathers of his massive wings. "How are they?"

"A little sore," Warren mumbled, grimacing. Undoing his belt strap, he began to remove his trench coat to allow his wings some freedom to stretch and mend their stiffness, when Jean gasped and pointed at his side. Something had torn through his coat and slashed his side, leaving a gaping wound that slowly trickled down his bare side, pooling near the waistline of his pants.

"We've got to get you to a hospital," Jean whispered, helping Warren disrobe and free his wings. Once she cast the coat off to the side, the rest of his injuries came in to view, his entire torso exposed to her. A few contusions lined his left shoulder like purple and blue kisses, and a smaller scratch grazed his broad back, just beneath one of his wings.

"No hospital in Bayville would ever take me, Jean, and you know it," he stated matter-of-factly, wincing as she helped him to his knees.

"Then I'll get you to the Institute. Dr. McCoy is one of the best, trust me." Jean swung his arm behind her shoulders and proceeded to support part of his weight and help him stand.

"Don't be foolish, Jean," he whispered in her ear, causing her to stop and question him with a worried expression. "I know you didn't come here alone. Save the others first. I can handle myself if things get too nasty."

On cue, his massive feathered appendages extended to full wingspan and cut through the air with an elegant flap. Her accosting look did not faze Warren, but he did spare her a brilliant smile. "If I can trust you, Jean, then you can trust me. Get the others help and I'll meet you in the parking lot. We can head to Xavier's from there."

Nodding but still hesitant, Jean agreed and stepped back from the injured mutant, allowing him to flex his wings once more. "Just watch out for the guns. I don't think they're afraid to use them on anyone who fights back."

He gave a baffled frown but quickly hid it for a more solemn stare. "Go. I'll be fine."

"I wouldn't speak so soon, bird-boy," a youngish male voice declared from behind them. Jean spun around, gritting her teeth against the flare of hot pain in her ankle. Fiery tears blurred her vision as her eyes locked onto the blonde-haired man. Debris nearby took flight and started to move around them as if the air were a fervent whirlpool. "Hello, Jean. Nice surprise, huh?"

Duncan Matthews stood over her with his weapon burrowed into her red mane, a wicked smile cutting across his facial features. He'd gotten a hair cut and lost some of the blonde dye, the roots of a brunette peaking out beneath the faux platinum. No longer did he wear a Letterman's jacket, either; a simple piece of wardrobe that Jean believed he would be interred with. Yet he smiled down at her, gun against her skull, wearing a leather jacket to compensate for the surprising absence of his prized garb. Beneath it he wore a tight-fitting plain tank top that had tears around the collar, exposing part of a tattoo on his chest. Seeing her gazing at it, Duncan pulled down on the collar and gave her full view of the small tattoo inked in his skin below his collar bone. _Muties_ was printed boldlywith a self-explaining red circle and a slash mark.

"Lovely," Jean muttered. Duncan ignored her venomous tone and grinned.

"I know. Everyone in the group's got one…just not all in the same place." He gave a crude smirk and continued. "I've realized we've never seen eye to eye on almost anything, Jean, so I won't try to throw any politics at you right now."

Duncan and politics? Jean withheld a snide laugh and kept her face stern.

"You want the simple facts?" Jean nodded, staring into the dark abyss of the energy blaster. "You and me are going to be spending a lot of time together."

A sickening thought popped into Jean's head; she gave a look of repulsion as it fed the seeds of her imagination.

"Not like that," Duncan confirmed. "You're not my type anymore. Don't dig the mutie chicks."

"I've always been a mutant, Duncan," Jean whispered harshly, glaring up at him.

"Yeah, well, it was better when I didn't know what a mutie was." The word continued to irk, slapping Jean in the face, its demeaning impact finding her as a target. "Don't act so hurt, Jean. Mutie's the new term for scum like you. Times are changing, princess."

Jean spit in his face, glancing his nose with her saliva as it dripped down into his mouth. Furious, Duncan wiped it away with one arm and planned on using the other to crush Jean's head in with his weapon. Warren rushed in front of her, ramming Duncan and dislodging the energy blaster from his grasp, as he fired reflexively. The bolt whizzed past Jean's shoulder and shattered a table behind her.

Warren's wings flapped and surged to help maintain his balance as he struggled with Duncan; they also encased the mutant-hater by closing in on him from both sides and forcing him to fight.

An energy blast fired nearby grazed Warren's shoulder and scorched his wing, burning a few feathers and spilling blood onto Duncan's shirt. Jean saw his wings convulse as the pain stunned Warren, giving Duncan the opportunity to shove the older man off of him. Warren landed on his wings and groaned, a fresh cut flowing freely from his shoulder, a scarlet river running down his chest.

Climbing to his feet, Duncan stared at Jean with wild eyes akin to that of something primal. The blood staining his white tank top only added to the madness. "_Mutie slut!_"

The insult passed right by Jean, and she leveled Duncan with a calculative narrowing of her eyes. A reckless mutant-hater was more dangerous but easier to fool than a calm one. She could manipulate his viciousness to her own advantage and use his rage as his downfall.

He clawed at his shirt and tore it open to fully reveal the blood-stained ink sigil of his undying hatred of mutants, and then he charged her.

A painful sidestep brought her out of harm's way, so she kicked out her foot and tripped Duncan, sending him careening off balance and onto an overturned table. He banged his head on a chair leg and groaned, his head bobbing.

Vindicated, Jean strolled over to him and took him by the jaw, jerking his face up to hers and staring into his disoriented eyes. "_If you've hurt anymore of my friends, or if any one of these innocent people dies, I will come back here and rip your heart out, Duncan!_"

Though dazed, his mind still processed fear in its finest. Jean's nails dug into his jaw, drawing blood. The voice of malevolence was not her own; inhuman. "_Mutants are going to rule your kind, Duncan, and you better count yourself lucky if I refrain from entering your pathetic mind and tearing it apart synapses by synapse and then dancing on your psyche until insanity is all you know!_"

A dark stain appeared in the front of his jeans, as Duncan quivered in her grip. He yelped and moaned and squirmed, but Jean held tight, digging deeper into his flesh. She flipped him off the table and onto his back against the carpeted floor. Her fingernails left his chin and hovered over the tattoo bathed in crimson upon his sweaty chest. "_This has got to go!_"

"_No!_" Duncan protested, slapping at her and rolling around on the floor.

"_Stop_, Jean!"

Instinctively, she whipped around and swiped, intending to slash at whatever was trying to hinder her desires. She half-slapped, half-clawed Warren's face, leaving fresh tears along his cheek and snapping his head to the side.

"_Insolence is rewarded only with_**-----**Warren!" The foreign voice of ire skipped a beat, replaced by a high-pitched cry in Jean's true voice. Whatever had taken possession of her vocal chords had departed, leaving her frightened by the sudden incisions made on Warren's face, as she realized that they were the product of her own fingernails. "_Oh!_" She looked back down at a whimpering Duncan, blood lacing his neck like red ribbons trailing down from his jaw line.

Jean stumbled away from him and crawled backwards, bumping into a wall and shrieking. Her rapid breaths drew in hot air, suffocating her lungs. She coughed and withered, her eyes watering, until Warren had his arms around her, soothing her with his voice and calming her with his embrace. Sticky tears dripped onto his skin, as Jean buried her face into his chest, unable to explain her actions. Her loss of control was deeply perturbing, and it rendered her nearly incapacitated.

Taking the moment as a vengeful window of opportunity, Duncan pulled himself up and onto his feet, groping for his weapon among the rubble.

Beating him to the offense, another walker found the couple on the floor and fired off his gun, reacting to the enormous wings in his view. The bullet pierced Warren's left wing with a shattering finalization, causing him to scream just as Jean's sobs altered to mimic his outcry; but as his screams died into a grunt, hers grew into an ear-splitting cacophony of tortured unrest and white hot pain, a sound beyond her world as something usurped its control over the telepath. Rage poisoned the intensity of the outburst; psychic blasts accompanied the screams as they were directed at the walker, ravaging his mind and splitting apart his psyche.

Once the energy and ferocity exhausted out of Jean, she collapsed in a heap atop the semi-conscious Warren, unknowingly having crippled the walker, leaving him in a comatose state.

Jean stirred but Duncan kicked her in the head and silenced her moans. He looked down at his blood-stained chest, his ruined shirt, and his blistering tattoo, and snarled as he kicked at his ex-girlfriend for the second time.

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Remy LeBeau knew what a hangover felt like.

This was ten times worse.

The undeniable throbbing in his head robbed him of coherent thoughts. His eyes stung with plaster and sawdust, temporarily blinding him. Something pressed down on his ribs, constricting his attempts at drawing in air. He coughed and gagged but the metallic taste in his mouth would not be banished. He was staring up at the ceiling**-----**what was left of it, anyways.

A coppery scent flooded his nostrils; nausea crept into his gut and surprised him, drawing out a groan of discomfort from his lips. The world seemed to liquefy before him, swimming within his vision and spiking his senses, depleting his comprehension of the situation.

The explosion. The screams. The destruction.

_Rogue?_

A bomb had gone off and torn through part of the restaurant, leaving fractured structures and mangled bodies in its wake. Lament laced the air, borne of cries for help and wails of pain. Something electrical cracked and sprayed sparks into the air. A jagged edge had burrowed into the nape of his neck, corrupting his muscles and rubbing into his spine. The chunk of debris positioned just below the back of his head would give him neck problems for weeks if he didn't relive some of the ache. Lifting his head caused the world to distort again, but his neck muscles cheered and relaxed.

Craning his neck despite the pain, Remy searched for a brunette and white streaked mane, as his concerns shifted from himself to another. Rogue was out of his line of sight, igniting a fresh wave of anxiety that riddled his nerves.

"Rogue…" He croaked, barely able to hear his own voice. Drops of blood tickled his throat, burning and making him sputter. "Rogue…"

"Don't speak."

The voice came from nowhere and anywhere, reaching Remy's ears with its owner unseen. A moment later, he could breathe again, able to draw in full but painful breaths as the weight was lifted off his rib cage. Two tiny hands tugged at his armpits, dragging him backwards and over clumps of debris and scattered rubble. Remy half-glanced around him, wondering how far the explosion had pitched him. He spat at the floor, trying to get rid of the blood in his mouth. He had no sense of his location; he recognized nothing.

"Say something if this hurts."

The mysterious voice again, this time coming from behind his head. Had his neck not been bothering him so, Remy would've tilted his head back and looked up into the voice's face.

A door bumped open and Remy felt his feet slide over a threshold. Cool air rushed at him and prickled his skin while freezing the sweat adorning him.

"Hang on, there're some steps."

One of the hands slid out from under his arm and moved to the center of his back, sliding so that an arm could wrap behind him. The other arm hooked underneath his knees, hoisting him off the ground. Remy's head bobbed and his vision dimmed, as the voice carried him a few feet and set him down on something. "Don't leave this spot."

"Are those real, _cherie_?" He'd meant to say something along the lines of _sure, no problem_, but he was already half-dreaming, delirious with a more pleasant situation than the current one. "Come 'ere an' let Remy decide."

"I'll be back soon."

As hurried footsteps clambered on cement steps, Remy's head tilted to the side and he glimpsed a fleeting figure shadowed by the dark of night and the failing of his sight.

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Scott Summers lay in the same position for a very long time.

He kept his eyes fearfully squeezed shut. His protective shades were crushed beneath his shoulder; he felt the ruby quartz shards pricking his flesh. The lonely darkness behind his eyelids was so cold.

He was used to seeing red. But in his imagination, everything was much worse.

Whenever his eyesight was unavailable, his mind's eye would unintentionally strive to create the horrific from the mundane, the torture from the discomfort; all the scenes he played through his mind were supposed to be worse than the reality beyond his eyelids. But Scott was too afraid to open his eyes and see for himself. The restaurant had already suffered enough destruction without his concussive blasts bringing the rest of the building down around him.

Scarlet and crimson lined the walls, the floors, the skewed objects. His mind's eye painted a hellish landscape that afflicted him all the more because he could not**-----**_would not_**-----**open his eyes and disarm his imagination. The metallic taste in his mouth and the coppery air only fueled the horror in his mind.

'_Jean…Jean…Jean!'_

No response. She was either unconscious or…

Scott's insides were skewered by fear and the unknown, tempting him to scream his lover's name had his throat not been so scorched. _She's tough, she's fine. She's probably saving lives, busy tending to the wounded._

His thoughts were only partially comforting. None of those assumptions could be confirmed unless he heard her voice or felt her sweet touch. Their telepathic link was temporarily stalled, meaning the explosion had knocked her out. That was the only explanation; Scott entertained no others, no "what ifs" or alternate scenarios. Otherwise, he would be admitting defeat, conceding in the battle and deeming all hope lost.

'_Jean…'_

Still unconscious. Scott remembered to breathe. A crescendo of pain erupting below his chin almost pushed him off the precipice of consciousness. His eyes squeezed shut harder and his teeth dug into his fleshy lip. Why was his shirt so sticky?

A steady pulse of pain in synch with his breaths frightened Scott. A misleading numbness told him nothing was wrong because he could feel no pain or discomfort. But Scott felt the sticky hotness, the slick wetness, and he knew that the hurt would eventually wash over the lack of sensations. Pain was a budding flower waiting to bloom and spread itself throughout his torso.

Someone gasped to his right. Instinctually, Scott turned towards the noise but kept his eyes closed. "Who's…" His voice died on him as his throat briefly closed up.

"Can you feel my hand?" A voice inquired, and Scott could not, thus meaning the hand was probing his chest, making contact with the numbness that did not register with his brain. Logic provided him the answers, but his body was being fooled by the absence of feeling.

Scott shook his head slowly. "Not good." In a much quieter tone, "So much blood."

Had his hearing not been as acute, Scott would not have picked up on the whisper. _So much blood…_

Two hands tugged at his armpits and dragged him along the floor. Not long thereafter, an arm cradled his legs and another looped around his back, lifting his body off the floor.

The heat and human cries were suddenly replaced by cool air and unnerving silence. Then Scott heard a giggle and, "Come t' papa." It sounded like Remy, somewhere close by.

A hard surface pressed against Scott's back, as the arms disappeared out from under him. His rescuer laid him down and checked his pulse. A short sigh escaped into Scott's ears.

"Does your chest hurt at all?"

"No," Scott mumbled.

"That's not good."

_You don't have to tell me twice,_ Scott mused, tasting the scent of advent rainfall, sweet air mixed with a far off downpour headed for Bayville. Did that make any sense?

"There were four in your party, right?" Scott nodded, thinking about Jean and Rogue still inside. He was almost positive Remy was lying somewhere close, probably in a similar condition to his own. "Four mutants?"

Scott nodded again, hesitantly.

"They came for us," the voice whispered. "I hope they were expecting some resistance."

Wanting to question his rescuer, Scott opened his mouth but sensed the person's leave, followed by loud footsteps on concrete steps.

"Remy can do dis all night long…" The male voice told the night. Scott's worries for the other half of their party intensified.

Overhead, the moon glowed with an ominous glean behind a veil of gray clouds.

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Having attended Bayville High, Duncan Matthews had seen a lot of weird things and learned to expect the unexpected, whatever that meant.

But when he saw the tiny girl in denim and cashmere with luscious blonde locks, he was smitten. The glare set in her features did not deter him from admiring her curves as she plodded towards him. Maybe the night would turn out better than he had expected…

When the babe kicked at a piece of debris, Duncan anticipated her cry of anger and hurt due to a stubbed toe. He was still smiling when the debris departed the ground in a motion much like a soccer ball receiving a well-placed kick, and he came to his senses a moment too late. The debris struck him in the chest and exploded in his face, knocking the wind out of him and dropping him to the ground.

She was on top of him before he even had a chance to recover his lost oxygen. Her hands wrapped around the front edges of his leather jacket, and she yanked him off the ground and shook him violently.

Her gaze was locked on his chest. "What does this tattoo mean?"

"Whatever you want it to mean, babe." He noted her unimpressed face. "Signifies my journey to eradicate this town of all muties and reunite Bayville's normal citizens by eliminating their fears."

The slap came from a powerhouse. Duncan's jaw clacked like never before, not even from the hardest punch he'd ever sustained.

"You hit like a man."

The second slap split open his cheek. Duncan's eyes lit aflame at the arousing taste of pain. "I like a chick who can pack a wallop."

She sneered at him, jarring him as she shoved him backwards and held onto his jacket, yanking him forwards savagely. "Why did you plant a bomb in this restaurant?"

"Why do the hot babes always look hotter when they're mad?"

A third slap; this time spraying droplets of blood on the floor, as Duncan's broken lip gushed. "Tell me who set you up to this! I know you didn't do it on your own!"

"_Hey_," Duncan said, defensive. "We didn't make the device or the plan or choose the location, but we made everything happen! We did the dirty work."

"Then _who_ put you up to it?" The girl demanded, her eyes flashing inches from Duncan's face.

All these questions and Duncan was getting bored. The babe was fine, no doubt, but looks didn't make up for her annoying play of twenty questions. The mission was not yet fulfilled and they needed to nab one more mutant. The efficiency of the plan depended on him now, and any wasted time would lure them closer to getting caught before they could complete the job and gain the rewards.

"Alright, enough is enough, babe." He reached for her, intending to shove her to the side and walk away.

He'd never seen a chick move so fast. One second, his hand was almost on her shoulder. The next, his pinkie was being jerked around so harshly that Duncan thought that she'd ripped it from the socket. Pain exploded in his hand as his pinkie flared, twisted in the girl's fingers. Duncan cried out and withered, his attempts at freeing his digit only adding to the hurt.

"You can handle nine fingers, can't you?" The girl asked, venomously quaint. "But can you handle the pain of having one of those fingers being torn from the rind? I'd like to see if you could."

The gunshot came from behind the girl and in between two mounds of rubble. The bullet was meant to subdue, aimed for the leg, but it ricocheted off the back of the girl's thigh and pierced one of the rubble mounds instead.

Duncan's mouth twisted into a frown as his face flushed scarlet. A mutie…_touching_ him.

Duncan rammed his fist into the girl's palm, though his target had been her pretty face. She twisted it and he heard his wrist crack, followed by a current of pain that shot up his forearm. Another bullet deflected off the mutie's back, and then another off her shoulder. Her fingers curled around Duncan's throat in a vise grip, removing his feet from the floor and bringing him upwards. He stared down into her face with a mix of fear and rage; wild emotions that made him kick out and struggle in her stone grip.

"Who's behind this?"

The fingers tightened, applying greater pressure around his windpipe.

"Who's behind this?"

The air was cut off from his lungs.

"Who's behind this?"

Finally, his eyes bulging, his head spinning, and the deprivation of oxygen nearly causing him to pass out, Duncan saw a high-level energy blast pound the mutie's back. She cried out and released him, falling into him and sending Duncan crashing to the floor.

She wasn't one of the ones he was sent to collect. He more or less knew all three of the targets. Only one of them was missing. Duncan looked forward to meeting up with the missing link and catching up on old times, maybe by settling a score or two.

The one who fired the energy blast walked up to Duncan as he was climbing onto his feet. "She one of 'em?"

"No, she's not," Duncan responded in a disappointed tone. He looked at her with dirty thoughts polluting his mind, but the promise of a great reward kept him from doing things that would damage the operation. He took in a large whiff of the girl's perfume, smiled down at her, and then turned back towards his accomplice.

"Are we finished then?"

"Not quite." Duncan's gaze scanned his surroundings quickly. "Two down, one to go."

**--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

**Author's Note**: So the plot deepens! Who could Duncan & co. be working for, you might ask? Find out soon, and I hope it will be surprising. The group he is leading is pretty much the same group of punks who attacked the Morlocks in that episode that Leech first appeared in. Like they were going to stay locked up. And what's up with Jean? Okay, so that's a little more obvious. But Carol? She's a little shadier for now. Thank you to all those who reviewed the first chapter! Please continue to do so! I would like to hear your thoughts on the story, any questions, or any insight you might have! Review!

**Next Time**: _Chapter III: Creed_

A little backstory, some different developments, a few answers and more questions, as Duncan & co.'s benefactor(s) is/are revealed, along with more details about the mysterious hostess named Carol.

-fathoms-


	3. Creed

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

**By**: InnerFathoms

**Setting**: A few months post-'Ascension'

**Summary**: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charles Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the "greatest mind in the world" is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.

**Discretions**: _The Sound and the Fury_ is by William Faulkner. _Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus_ is by Mary Shelley. Two new characters have minor roles in this chapter and will be explained in the **Author's Note**. There's also some backstory in the first half of this chapter, but the plot picks up for the second half and should leave you hanging at the end. So many questions arise, but please trust that they will be answered or explained. I apologize to anyone who gets lost, but feel free to ask any questions. Also, the chapter title is not a reference to either Victor or Graydon Creed, just to keep things clear.

**Pairings**: Nothing new here and zero couple interaction in this chapter.

**Genre-Rating**: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance-Teen

**Disclaimer**: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.

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**_Chapter III: Creed_**

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Charles Francis Xavier considered himself a man of patience, of sparse wisdom, and limitless understanding. He also considered himself a man of control and balance, but at a particular moment during his nightly reading habit in his bedroom, with _The Sound and the Fury_ propped between his weathered hands, a shattering cacophony of voices poured into the domain of his mind like bursting dam, turning his world upside down.

With a grunt of surprise and strain, he realized that the world had literally turned upside down, having not remembered the plunge out of his wheelchair and onto an oriental rug, soft beneath his cheek. His eyes bulged and his vision failed for a moment, as the communicative noises assaulting his mind overpowered all his other senses.

Time was irrelevant as the voices**-----**too many to be sorted out, the fluctuation of their pitch growing unsteadily**-----**bounced around in his head like angry bears in a cage, clawing at the restraints of his mind and causing him to double over with a gut-clenching moan.

When his sight returned sometime later, the telepath touched his sweaty cranium lightly, acknowledging that the sudden boom inside his head had subsided. Faulkner lay atop his overturned wheelchair, as Charles straggled along the rug and reached his bed, hoisting himself up with much strain and collapsing onto the mattress.

Someone was toying with Charles Xavier.

It was the second disturbance this week, and for a man who prided himself on self-control and mental fortitude, even one failure of his mental structure would've aroused suspicions.

Regretfully, Apocalypse's mind control had left his mind fragile and disrupted, but the passing of time had healed the scars and allowed him to reclaim his psychic prowess and reestablish semblance.

Ever since he was a young man, Charles Xavier regarded the golden rule of telepathy as a simple one: _to never invade another person's thoughts against their will._

Many years of training and developments had enabled the Professor to construct a formidable barrier around his mind**-----**both to keep his thoughts safe and keep others out. Few souls had ever taken a step inside the mind of the X-men's founder, and only _one_ had ever manipulated his mind.

Falling victim to Apocalypse's mind control had left him quietly devastated. The man who sat on the high throne of telepaths, with the "greatest mind in the world", had his seat taken out from under him, allowing a plunge into self-doubts and hesitancy. The anger at being duped focused Charles's mind and motivated him to better protect himself from mental invasions. When an untouchable, a _nonpareil_, such as himself, gets beat at his own game, a craving for vengeance soon emerges.

But Charles was not a bitter or vengeful soul, and never planned to become one. Besides, Apocalypse was gone and there wasn't any point in pining over a lost cause.

Back to reality, Charles turned onto his back and rested his head on the pillow, feeling a nuisance fatigue settle into his weary bones. Whoever was tweaking his mental barriers and savagely opening his mind's vulnerability to others' constant thoughts was having their fun and still remaining anonymous.

Once again, Charles Xavier was being pulled along as the fool, no better than a marionette being dragged along in a twisted puppet show, his mind at the mercy of a sick puppeteer.

With an aggravated groan, Charles Xavier, man of patience, understanding, and self-control felt something totally foreign, something quite unexpected: he was _pissed_.

And there was nothing he could do to stop his unseen assailant except harden his mental defenses and hope that his assailant would make a slip-up and be caught.

Massaging his temples, Professor Xavier soon thereafter found comforting sleep, though his dreams were plagued by an unknown shadow taunting him from the edge of darkness.

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When Scott Summers awoke, he instinctively kept his eyes closed. It was natural habit, borne from his days as a wayward teenager who sought comfort in blindness for fear of seeing red. In Anchorage, surrounded by so many building structures and unaware citizens, one fatal glimpse of crimson would surely serve as someone's demise.

The crane had been his last sight ever in Alaska, the massive, rusted machine dangling haplessly and suspended over morning dwellers on the street below. The northern sky had been picturesque, serene and cerulean with a hint of faded purple, as the dawn commenced and brought much needed light and warmth to the freezing denizens of the northern territory.

His eyes had been burning for weeks, sometimes emitting tears that literally stung his cheeks as they descended his pale skin with a scarlet hue. That morning long ago, he had feared that something terrible was going to leave him blind, that whatever was burning behind his eyes was about to deteriorate his sight into nothing.

Then…everything went red.

The burning intensified but felt manageable at the same time, not helplessly afflicting. In the center of his line of sight, the all-crimson aurora converged into a white hot beam. The force thrust his head backwards, diverting his fatal gaze to that of the forgotten crane, nestled in an under-construction lot. The strange beam had pierced the rusted metal and severed the hanging mass. Like a deadly pendulum set free, the crane descended on unsuspecting people. Sixteen-year old Scott reacted with surprising quickness, bringing down the beam so that it dismantled the free falling crane into harmless pieces, saving the lives on the street that he had endangered a split second before.

Stunned silence had followed as all eyes turned on the tall, lanky boy with his eyes squeezed shut and his arms crossed over his face. Only his heavy breathing could be heard, as panic and adrenaline seeped through his body.

'_Freak!'_

There was always someone who threw the first stone. The word pierced Scott's heart, while a mist of confusion enshrouded it from his comprehension. His mind rejected it and his rationale reasoned that this naysayer was being overdramatic. Scott Summers was an orphan, a broken soul inside a growing carcass with an off-kilter heart. He was nobody's child anymore and sibling-less, cared for only by a selfless female social worker and a debonair man by the name of Nathaniel Essex. Scott Summers was lonely, feeble, and haunted, but certainly not a freak.

…Except…

Things were changing; the headaches, the eye irritation, the ruby-colored tears…they were not puberty-induced, but something much more mind-boggling.

'_He almost killed those people!'_

'_He just destroyed that crane!'_

'_Somebody stop that boy!'_

His legs were pumping without his mind's awareness, churning and carrying him away from the forming mob and the rattling accusations. More than once he stumbled and collided with something. But the alleyways were not a labyrinth, and in his mind's eye, with assistance from memories, Scott was able to flee through the crevices between the buildings of the business district.

Something slashed his leg before he made it to the orphanage, forcing him to stop running and hide. For hours he sat in the darkness, fearing for his life as tell tale footsteps boomed all around him. Night had set in before he made it back to the orphanage. His leg was cleaned out and bandaged and he was accosted by much concerned interrogation.

As he lay in bed nearing the advent of midnight, the witching hour, a mob straight out of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ had infiltrated the orphanage. Scott had immediately sought solace with Dr. Essex, a man who was often compassionate towards the young man, but there were also times when his presence was as intangible as the shadows, and no one ever tried to find him when his absence became apparent.

That night as well, Professor Charles Francis Xavier and two of his "students" greeted the terrified Summers boy after the mob mysteriously disbanded and retreated from the Anchorage orphanage.

The Professor had explained to Scott that he was a mutant, someone born with certain genes that made him different than normal humans and gave him special powers. It had all sounded like something out of a comic book, but the congenial man had told Scott that his uniqueness was important and should be valued as much as any other trait. They were gifts, the Professor had instructed, admitting that his gift had caused the mob hunting down young Scott to strangely separate and leave with blank faces.

In the wee hours of the morning, Scott received a pair of ruby quartz shades and experienced his first ever scarlet night. In the morning, he left Alaska for good. Dr. Essex promised that they would meet again, and left Scott with a simple handshake and wished him well.

"Hey, wake up." Someone whispered, interrupting Scott's recollection.

The voice was distant, far off like a wispy cloud in a bottomless sky, where the depths of blue are infinite and the serenity of the heavens is embraced magically.

Pain cut a scar in the sky. It bled crimson, and once more, everything turned red…and then darkness.

The backs of his eyelids, though there was a faint red glow behind them.

"Please, wake up!"

Scott's eyes stayed closed, trained from adolescence, so that he would never blast a concussive force-beam from his eyes upon awakening.

"Who…"

"The cops are coming!" A shrill voice cried, causing him to wince. A hand brushed back his dark bangs and caressed his sweaty forehead.

"Jean?"

A silence, and then, "I'm sorry."

The pain exploded in Scott's head as his upper body shot up and his head turned towards the voice. A sharper, deeper pain laced his chest and caused him to grunt, as the ache in his head proved to be a breeding ground for vertigo that swept through his stomach and liquefied the world around him, despite the absence of sight.

"Are you _in_sane?" A female voice shrieked, and two hands tried to force him back down.

"Where's Jean?" The question escaped smoothly from his lips, its clarity and urgency contrasting his earlier mumbles. When anything ever concerned Jean, Scott never lost focus.

"Lie down or you're going to injure yourself worse!"

"Where's Jean?" he demanded with a fiercer tone. He hated to be kept in the dark, no pun intended.

The anxiety is his heart found its way to his concealed eyes, flushing them with a greater intensity of ruby-colored concussive force. Surprisingly, but not for the first time, Scott wondered how he was even able to close his eyes to thwart the devastating energy consuming his eyeballs. His eye lids were not decimated despite the simmering scarlet behind them. The Professor had once said that his powers were solar powered, and that opening his eyes to sunlight would activate their ferocity. For a man who usually had all the answers, the Professor was unable to answer Scott when he asked why he still had to wear shades at night, if the sun wasn't out.

Sensation slowly began to return to Scott's upper body, as a tell tale trickle started to pool near his belly button. Grimacing from the warmth, Scott concentrated on his missing loved one and not on his own predicament.

"The pretty redhead?"

"_Yes,_" Scott hissed, his tone remorseful. It had been his fault in the first place that they had separated prior to the blast. If he hadn't gone all "macho man," then she might have ended up right next to him after the explosion. Right now, he would be with _her_, not a stranger he could not see.

"I…" the woman trailed off. "I don't know. But you must forget about her for the moment! The only way you can help her is by helping yourself first!"

"No, no," Scott repeated hurriedly, trying to kick his legs over the side of the makeshift gunnery. He swiped at the hands on his shoulders, pushing them away as he attempted to touch his feet to the ground.

Scott's knees buckled once he forced his way to the ground. Teetering forward, he brushed against the woman and almost knocked her down. The individual in question was strong, though, and managed to support his weakened body. Hanging his arm around slender shoulders, the mysterious woman**-----**he could tell by her voice**-----**kept him on his feet.

"There's a manhole not far from here. Can you walk with me?"

Meekly, Scott nodded, too tired to entertain the thought of escaping into the sewers. In his hazy state of mind, it took a few minutes for someone as logical as Scott to put two and two together, after a groan of annoyance for being so clueless.

"Callisto?"

He recalled the name from the last meeting the X-men and the Morlocks had engaged in, back when a brazen chain of mutant hate crimes had been perpetrated in Bayville and Spyke had taken it upon himself to be the town's mutant defender.

"Yes. You're going to be with the Morlocks now. We'll patch you and your friend up and lead you through the tunnels to your home. Then you can warn your friends about _them_."

"Who?" Scott inquired, stopping in accord with the Morlocks leader, as she removed a manhole from beside the sidewalk.

"The ones behind this destruction," Callisto said, dropping the heavy disc with minimal clatter and helping Scott into the hole. "Humans are behind it. They've come to take a toll on mutants. Maybe they think we scare easily."

Scott's consciousness was fading as they transcended into the subterranean level of Bayville. "Why…this place?"

"The restaurant?" Callisto snorted in disgust. "Because it's mutant-friendly. What better place to pick off a few mutants than somewhere that offers them a meal without harassment. The owner, an angel-man, has been kind enough to provide us with numerous meals when our methods of retrieval have…been below-average."

"Warren?" Scott questioned, more to himself than the woman next to him. "What…what about Remy?"

"The other man? Evan's reaching the surface world on a different route. He'll reach your friend before the cops investigate the alleyways. No doubt they'll arrest any mutants in the vicinity on the spot. Even the ones who are supposed to protect us think we're scum. Every mutant in this city walks around with "guilty" plastered on their forehead, no matter the offense."

"Scapegoats," Scott mumbled, his head dipping.

"Exactly," Callisto agreed, bitterness continuing to lace her tone. "It's not far. Hang with me, here. You need to be conscious to be healed, son."

They walked the underground labyrinth for countless minutes; more than once Scott thought he blacked out, only to hear his rescuer's quiet breaths or the flow of water nearby. Sewage smells assaulted his nostrils frequently, but the more he traveled in the town's underbelly, the more he became accustomed to the putrid odors.

Finally, when the faintest hints of voices reached Scott's ears, he stirred and tried to wake himself up, shaking his head to clear the steady fog encasing his conscious mind.

A door opened and Callisto helped Scott across the threshold and laid him against the wall. His feet slid out and Scott sank to the grimy floor, bowing his head and letting his arms hang limply at his sides.

"Healer," Callisto beckoned. "The boy needs help. Do what you must." Then she leaned in towards Scott, whispering in his ear. "I can't promise this isn't going to hurt, but you'll feel much better afterwards."

Shuffling footsteps drew near, and Scott sensed a presence kneeling next to him. A foul scent filled his nostrils, but he was too exhausted to react with repulsion. The odor washed over him and he reflexively gagged.

"Stay awake," a husky voice croaked. "And don't move too much."

Scott half-nodded, steeling himself against the onset of pain. At first, there was only warmth, a warmth different than that which emanated from his blood slicking his torso. This warmth was comforting, placid, like gentle sunshine spilling onto his skin. "Hold him, Callisto."

Strong hands pressed on his shoulders, pinning him to the wall. A different pair of hands touched his chest, and the sunshine warmth faded almost instantly, replaced by a sting of pain, intensifying into a cruel burning sensation that lit his chest on fire, as the hands touching his exposed flesh felt akin to acidic kisses. Callisto prevented him from withering, but his mouth was uncovered and he cried out helplessly. The fire spread from beneath the palms pressed to his chest, pouring through his trunk like a fiery deluge, setting his nerves aflame and banishing any remaining numbness.

The ordeal lasted nearly thirty seconds before Healer removed his hands from Scott's chest. Instantaneously, the flaring pain subsided and Scott was left quivering, his muscles still aching. Once the evanescence of all pain and discomfort was complete, Scott gave a weak smile and exhaled audibly.

"Thank you. It feels much better."

"Thank Healer," Callisto offered, but the shuffling footsteps indicated that the Morlock had already walked off. Scott didn't want to shout after him, but he did whisper a heartfelt thank-you beneath his breath.

"Can you stand?" The Morlock leader asked. With his head cleared from the intensive restoration, Scott climbed to his feet using the wall as support. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. "Does anything else hurt?"

"Not really. Is Evan back with Remy yet?"

Taking a step forward, intending to follow Callisto, Scott's acute hearing detected an unknown projectile cutting through the air like a boomerang. Tensing, he tilted his head and listened, ducking at the exact moment before the foreign object would've clobbered his face. It hit the wall behind him, shattering stone and cement that sprayed Scott's back.

"What is _he_ doing here, Cal?" A girl's voice asked. Scott blocked out the voice and concentrated on the air, listening for anymore shifts that would indicate oncoming missiles. His lack of sight hardly prevented him from being able to retain his agility or evasiveness.

"He's in need of our help, Sarah!" Callisto shot back, her voice rising.

"Look at him, Cal! He's a pretty-boy, one of the surface dwellers! Non-Morlocks are not allowed down here!"

"The girl has a point, Callisto," the raspy voice of Healer added.

"Morlocks _do not_ turn their backs on other mutants, no matter what they look like! We're all in the same boat here! Every mutant in Bayville has a sword hanging over their heads with only a horsehair thread keeping it from plunging into their skulls! No mutant is completely safe**-----**not here, not the surface world!"

All these voices and no faces to place on them. Scott had seen Callisto before, but he deduced that the Morlocks' ranks had grown; both Healer and Sarah were unknowns in his mind's eye. He had nothing to say on his own behalf, as his thoughts wander back to the marred restaurant, to his beloved Jean, lost. To Rogue, who he cared equally about. Scott wanted Evan to show up soon, someone he could talk to; someone he could trust.

"And when did his kind ever help us, huh?" Sarah continued with her slander. "When did anyone up there ever-**----**"

"_Stop it_, Sarah. You have no place to deface other mutants. The Morlocks have been helped more than once by surface dwellers, even before you came."

"But, Evan…" She pleaded, the ferocity in her tone lost to her whining.

"Enough. If you can't accept it, find somewhere else to live."

His voice had changed so much, beyond the obvious fact that it had grown deeper. Evan Daniels spoke with a maturity that Scott had never heard from someone his age; something that he had never expected would come to the cocky skateboarder from long ago. The mutations in his powers had influenced the mutant known as Spyke on so many levels. Scott baffled himself whenever he thought back to the kid he'd known a year ago, _far_ different than the gruff, moral man standing across the room.

"Evan," Callisto said, probably directing his attention to his old teammate.

"Hey, Scott. The Cajun dude is in another room recovering. His wounds aren't as bad as yours were, but Healer will be with him soon."

"Thanks, Ev," Scott replied, purposely using the nickname to endear his old friend. Though he probably knew it, Scott still wondered if Evan ever thought about how much he was missed. Ororo had become a shade unhappier, but her strength and faith often times kept her from appearing downcast. Her nephew's indefinite absence from the team still left a mark, though, and she admitted to still worrying about him.

Even after he had temporarily united with the X-men to stop Apocalypse, the bone-armored mutant returned to the Morlocks the day following Apocalypse's fall, leaving soon after their group picture was taken by a professional photographer named Peter Parker for an exposé article in some big time New York newspaper.

"You'll have to forgive Sarah," Callisto told Scott. "She's not too fond of anyone from the surface world."

"Is that right?"

Evan gave a slight chuckle and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know you're worried about her, Scott. We'll find some answers soon." He paused as he felt Scott's muscles tightening. "Just tell us everything you know and we'll go from there. Jean's tough, y'know."

Nodding absent-mindedly, Scott's thoughts went out to Jean, searching for a response on the other end of their telepathic link formed the night she had saved him from Mystique in Mexico.

Nothing more than emptiness greeted Scott's mind from the other end, an emptiness that mimicked the feeling burrowing into the confines of his heart.

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"_This is not how I wanted it!"_

"_Hey, man, we didn't fail! Three mutants, just like you asked."_

"_Fool! The girl was not to be part of the trio! You were given specifics!"_

"_Yeah, well…the third one disappeared."_

"_What? You're saying he just got up and walked away? Do you think I'm stupid?"_

"_No, no, man. It's just…someone probably helped him, that's all. We got Jean, Bird-Boy, and-----"_

"_And you failed to capture Scott Summers! This is hit-or-miss, Mr. Matthews! Two out of three does not cut it!"_

"_Hey, we got you three muties! Rogue's just, uh…compensation. Yeah."_

"_You should've listened, Mr. Matthews. There were three targets and they were all present in the restaurant prior to the explosion. You recovered two of them. Rogue was not to be taken!"_

"_What do you care, huh? They're all muties. Why's everything so specific?"_

Even in the hazy darkness; voices reached her through the pain. Loud, unbearable, each shout cracking down on her skull like an invisible mallet.

"_You are not meant to know the reasons behind this operation, Mr. Matthews. All you needed to do was cause the diversion and incapacitate three mutant subjects. You were supposed to bring all three of them here. You failed to bring in the third target. And we do not reward failure. Your services are no longer needed."_

"…_Then maybe we'll just take these freaks and keep 'em ourselves. But you better pay up, Kelly. The boys and I…we don't play nice with cheats. Fork over the payments."_

A comforting silence followed; Rogue cherished the brief interlude of peace, striving to collect her scattered thoughts and break through the prison of pain confining her semi-conscious mind.

Her eyes opened, but the darkness barely subsided. A small overhanging lamp lit the fronts of two figures facing each other, not more than ten feet from where she lay. Something bound her wrists and ankles together. Even without the binding, Rogue doubted she could stand. A dull ache in her skull forced her to shut her eyes, as she witnessed the scene all over again.

Scott and Remy. The arm wrestling match. Scott won. _Guess who's buying everyone din**-----**_

The explosion. Ripping through the building, casting her forward as the force of the detonation imploded the booth. Pain. Blood. Darkness.

Acknowledging the pain burrowing near her waist, Rogue let out a silent moan, parting her lips and rolling onto her back. The two half-lit, half-shadowed figures failed to notice her movement. Rogue turned toward them, using her remaining energy to focus on them and the words they were exchanging.

"The agreement was made and you failed to uphold your end, Mr. Matthews. There're no exceptions. I suggest you and your crew leave at once."

"Listen, _mayor_. We did what you asked. Summers disappeared so we brought you Rogue. Three mutants for ten thousand apiece. You could at least fork over the twenty K's, Kelly. We got you Jean and the winged-one."

As Rogue watched, harrowingly close to falling out of consciousness, the man she recognized as now-Mayor Kelly, Bayville High's previous principal, was eyeing the other man. She had trouble recognizing the blonde with dark roots wearing a leather jacket and crimson shirt. She strained her eyes, but the shadows playing across his face would not concede his identity.

What happened next, Rogue saw but could not comprehend, could only gawk and let out a wordless cry.

"Well, in that case, Mr. Matthews," Mayor Kelly began, taking a step closer towards the other man. A blur appeared between them, cloaked by shadows. The other man heaved, as it struck him in the stomach, his body quivering as he looked down at the five digits protruding into his flesh. He raised his head up to Kelly's masked face weakly. "I hope you've learned a lesson. A fool's arrogance will always be his downfall. You trust too easily…and you'll come to regret it. I advice you to remember that well."

With a sickening crunch, Mayor Edward Kelly removed his hand from within the other man's abdomen, allowing him to slump down to the floor, disappearing beneath the light of the lamp. Looking down at his wet hand, Kelly smiled with malicious satisfaction, and turned that horrid grin in Rogue's direction.

"Playtime's over," he whispered, walking towards her as a cold abyss washed over Rogue and swept her into the oblivion of unconsciousness.

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**Author's Note**: Ack, sorry for leaving it in another cliffhanger! I know, I know, enough is enough but this was how it flowed, I guess, and it keeps your interests flared up I hope! Xavier's section as well as Scott's backstory were both put in for a reason. A little foreshadowing, go figure. Hopefully the exchange between Duncan and "Kelly" cleared up some questions from the previous chapter. But it doesn't make any sense, you say? The explanations are right around the corner, so don't fret it too much.Cyclops, Jean Grey, and Angel were the targets, while Rogue ended up being compensation for Cyke missing out thanks to Callisto. But what about Remy? No one wanted to bother him? It should make more sense soon. Healer and Sarah are both from the comics, and for those of you who guessed it, yes, Sarah is also known as _Marrow_, in a way, Spyke's counterpart. Let's just say she's around his age, though in the comics she was originally one of the younger Morlocks. The Morlocks are key in some upcoming chapters, so keep your eyes peeled for them, and if you can figure out what's coming, you probably know your comic history. For this story, all the Morlocks who appeared in Evo are present, along with Healer, Marrow, and unnamed mutants as well. I do think it's interesting how the writers handled Callisto's character in the show, as she seemed much more compassionate and less aggressive than her comic counterpart, which lays reason to believe that she would be willing to help out someone like Scott. Also, hope you caught the Spider-Man nod. It kinda makes sense, since _someone_ had to take that sweet picture at the end of 'Ascension'. I'm not saying crossover, but they _do_ all live in the same area almost, and they do meet in the comics. Eh, anyways, thanks for reading and I hope y'all are enjoying it. Please remember to review! Feedback is appreciate and motivating! If anything's confusing, too, just ask and I will try to clear it up. And by the way, there's twenty-six chapters planned for this story. If you're wondering why, the chapter titles are a good hint. Thanks! Review!

**Next Time**: _Chapter IV: Damocles_

Carol may have escaped this chapter, but she'll be popping up at Xavier's in the next one. The captured trio of mutants begin to wonder what's in store for them, and news of the explosion reaches the X-men, as Scott and Remy recover with the Morlocks. "Kelly" shows his real face and the meaning behind his and Duncan's odd exchange is revealed.

-fathoms-


	4. Damocles

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

**By**: InnerFathoms

**Setting**: A few months post-'Ascension.'

**Summary**: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charlers Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the "greatest mind in the world" is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.

**Discretions**: An unnamed character from the comicverse makes his first appearance, an interlude to a major role in the plot. And also, even though Carol Danvers's powers are not mutant powers in the canon, for this story, let's consider her a mutant just like everyone else. Remember, the story may follow canon and comic material, but there will be plenty of twists and different takes on characters and plot arcs, to keep things original and interesting. _Damocles_, is a legend concerning a young man of the same name who switched places with the tyrant Dionysus, who he claimed was very fortunate with all his power and authority. However, near the end of a banquet meal, Damocles stopped enjoying this change of roles when he discovered a sharpened sword hanging above his head as he sat, held only by a horsehair. He immediately left behind all this fortune, not wanting to sit beneath the sword. This anecdote, known as _The Sword of Damocles_ alludes to the insecurity of those holding great power and their fear of having it suddenly taken away, or, in general, any feelings of impending doom. Both Callisto (in the previous chapter) and Gambit (near the end of this chapter) make references to this allusion. The title is taken from this anecdote, representing certain mutants' feelings of insecurity and fear of what is to come in the nearing hours.

**Pairings**: Bobby/Jubilee, slight hints at Ray/Jubilee

**Genre-Rating**: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance-Teen

**Disclaimer**: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.

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**_Chapter IV: Damocles_**

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Raven Darkholme had always thrived on deception.

For a woman who could change her appearance with utter subtleness, one who could mimic another individual so meticulously that the one being impersonated would question their own identity, manipulation was an innate trait. She could become a living lie, deceiving all those who set their eyes upon her, disguised as anyone and almost anything. She was a woman who made you lose trust in your own senses, and once duped by the formidable Mystique, you would always think twice whenever someone you knew was acting out of the ordinary.

Deception was an art to the blue-skinned mutant, as natural as her shape-shifting prowess. She could be anyone, anywhere. Mystique hardly ever placed her trust in others; a mutant whose abilities epitomized the victimization of trust and identity, she considered it acceptable. One who knew deception well could also be well-guarded against it.

Still, sometimes trust was an advantage, a gambit made to raise the stakes and fuel personal motives. Whenever there was a goal in mind, trust was just another obstacle to overcome. And right now, Mystique felt like she'd cleared that hindrance, but she was never too sure to forego looking over her shoulder for the knife of betrayal.

In the darkness of the cargo storage, with a single temporary lamp hanging overhead to wash away some of the dark, the shape-shifter glanced down at her bloodstained hand**-----**a human hand draped with human blood.

A small smile curved upon her face, as she reveled in knocking such an arrogant human down a peg. Her instincts had been to kill him, but for what little uses he could be to the cause, Mystique had deemed it reasonable to warrant his reprieve.

At her feet, the blood pooling atop Duncan Matthews's abdomen was soaking his previously white tank top, mixing with the dried blood of Warren Worthington III. Mystique glanced towards the other end of the cargo to spot the crumpled figure lying on the edge of the light cast by the lamp. Stark white feathers littered the floor around him, while blood stained the floor beneath him. Though no crimson floe escaped the white of his wings from where the bullet had punctured his massive appendage, a nasty slash across his shoulder was the only bleeding wound. He was unconscious, harmless, and needed to be treated so that the wound would not become infected. Upon arriving at their destination, he would receive medical attention.

Though she didn't consider herself a loner, Mystique despised being subjected to others' authority. However, when one could provide means to achieve her desires, a little subservience could go a long way.

Across from Warren, the redhead telepath moaned.

Malicious intent arose inside Mystique and almost intoxicated her, but Jean Grey was a prized possession, more so than Warren and also Rogue, who wasn't even supposed to have been snatched in the first place. The night in Mexico was not forgotten, but Mystique's plot for revenge on the girl had soon grown frivolous and over-strung. She had more vendettas to entertain and other vengeances to secure, instead of the petty matters with Jean Grey.

Remembering her semi-conscious daughter, Mystique turned back towards Rogue, the smile still obscuring her features. "Play time's over," she said in a voice other than her own.

The look of fear, confusion, and horror in Rogue's eyes satisfied Mystique on a different level. Her craving for vengeance and her maternal instincts conflicted often lately, and for all the times she tried to justify her distaste of her daughter, she would realize that Rogue's resentment was a byproduct of her own agendas. Though it pained her to believe it, Mystique knew that her daughter had reason to reject her and any of her motherly advances.

As Rogue fainted, Mystique frowned. This was neither the time nor place to be getting sentimental. She hoped to find redemption with her daughter and salvage something of a relationship in the near future. As of the present, business was needed to be done. And quickly.

Shifting from her guise as Mayor Edward Kelly**-----**a simple ploy to entrust Matthews and his cronies the dirty work**-----**into her true blue-skinned, fiery red mane, Mystique checked on Jean to make sure that she was indeed unconscious. The girl was too powerful and too troubled to be allowed consciousness during the commute. Mystique injected her with a sedative, and then headed back towards Rogue.

Blood slicked her cheek, slightly coated her white bangs. Beneath the low-slung waistband of her jeans, a nasty bruise was forming beneath the soft tissues of her flesh. The shadows embellished her slender, vulnerable look, as if the darkness could all but swallow her in one gulp. She seemed more fragile than glass, easily breakable with the slightest misuse. But few people knew the actuality of looks being deceiving more than Mystique. For Rogue, her frail appearance would infinitely contradict her cast-iron toughness and bitter resilience. Her defenses were strong and supported by the numerous pains she'd wished to avoid, pains caused by isolation, uncertainty, and betrayal.

Mystique sighed irritably, hanging her head beneath the tiny hanging lamp.

"I'll make it up to you someday, Rogue," she declared in a whisper, growing agitated by the delay. After making sure the bindings were secure on all three mutants, Mystique stepped out of the cargo and closed the doors behind her. Beneath the moonlight glow, she hurried to the front hub of the truck, climbing in and starting the vehicle. With Jean, Warren, Rogue, and Duncan Matthews, all unconscious and injured, stored in the back of the truck, Mystique pulled out of the alleyway and onto 5th Street South, just down the street from the ruined restaurant, and headed for the Interstate.

The commute was less than ten minutes; she was hardly worried about her stowaways' injuries, as they would receive immediate attention upon reaching the labs.

On the outskirts of Bayville, its downtown district of lights disappearing into the dark horizon, Mystique skirted onto one of the ramp exits, taking the road around in a circular fashion before driving deeper into the surrounding woods on a less populated path. Her lights were the only ones cutting through the thick darkness, moonlight unable to penetrate the thickening forest.

By means of memory and estimated distance, Mystique veered off the path and to the right, finding a freshly cut pathway through the undergrowth and dense brush. The ground was rough and the ride was riddled with bounces and bumps; Mystique imagined the captives flopping around in back with unconscious animation.

With a final _thump_ that resounded enough for Mystique to fear a blown tire or ripped undercarriage, the abandoned warehouse came into view, standing within a clearing and reaching towards the sky by a good three stories. Even in the darkness, slices of lunar light splattering its crumbling structure, the building looked desolate and unoccupied; a ghost of its former enterprise or factory self. Its discreet and well-concealed location, as well as its manageable underground level, combined together to form a suitable base of operations for nefarious acts. Anyone stumbling around the woods, for whatever strange reasons, would come upon a fractured and deserted warehouse, complete with furry inhabitants, waning structural support, and discarded boxes and crates. Ominous, in a paranoid sense, but empty and unusable nonetheless. Should any persons come looking for certain captives, they would find the same type of building; the underground laboratories, cells, and stations were not easily penetrated. Mystique had no idea where a forced entry could be made, as the subterranean level's ceiling was a solidified foundation to the aging warehouse and very resistance. Only a tiny platform elevator that rose out of the backend of the warehouse allowed passage to the lower level. It had to be activated from a control room beneath the ground level.

A lone figure stepped out into the clearing, tall and broad and hulking in the shadows. Mystique kicked open the door and slid out of the hub, her boots whistling as they touched the dewy grass. A breeze brought the loner's scent into Mystique's face, causing her to upturn her nose in disgust. The figure hardly seemed to care, walking past Mystique without a first glance.

"Be gentle," she admonished, following the figure to the corner of her eye as he passed by her. "They've already been inflicted with a number of injuries."

The figure growled his disapproval, though he seemed to comply. Mystique followed him to the rear of the truck, hopping into the cargo after he did.

His mind elsewhere, Sabretooth hardly noticed when he bumped his head against the hanging lamp. Slightly annoyed, Mystique rolled her eyes and followed the bestial mutant, opting to take Rogue in her own safe care. She wasn't about to trust that blundering behemoth with her weakened daughter.

Sabretooth flung both Warren and Jean over his shoulders, and stepped out of the cargo after Mystique carrying Rogue in her arms, this time ducking beneath the hanging lamp.

The duo crossed the clearing and stepped into the warehouse, moving beneath broken ceilings and ribbed structure beams, making their way through the hollow building. Upon reaching the final room, they waited as the ground trembled and the floor opened up to allow a tiny platform, about five-by-eight feet, to fully ascend. They stepped onto it, their footsteps echoing in a metallic hum, while Mystique tapped the button that would initiate their descent into the laboratories below.

As the mechanism engaged and the platform lower, the body in her arms stirred, and to Mystique's quiet dismay, Rogue's eyes fluttered open.

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In the amber glow of the mansion's library, "Watch it, mister!"

"_What_?"

Silence resumed, along with the flickering flames beyond the hearth of the fireplace, until, "_Bobby!_"

"_What_?" The question was repeated with same tone of mock innocence.

Jubilee turned and smacked the groping hands with her heavy textbook. "You said you'd help me with my Physics work, Bobby!"

"What'd ya think I'm doing? Just trying to get you to unwind, babe," he cooed, smirking deviously.

Melting a little, Jubilee managed a brief grin, and set her open textbook on the floor. "This was a ploy all along, wasn't it?"

"You mean you didn't know I was getting a 'D' in that class?"

"Well…" Jubilee started, not wanting to reveal her gullibility. "I just thought it was because you weren't motivated. I still think you're smart, Einstein."

Bobby blinked back imaginary tears, saying, "Aw, Jubes, that touches my heart."

"Shut up."

Giggling, Jubilee shoved the laughing boy to the other side of the couch, and drew up her legs to prevent him from coming any closer. "You're cold, girl."

"No, _you're_ the cold one, Bobby Drake."

"Great pun, Jubes. You'll be a comedienne in no time." Bobby teased, forcing himself over her legs. "You know, for an iceman, I can create a lot of warmth."

Squealing, Jubilee grabbed a hold of Bobby as the two of them toppled off the couch, rolling along the floor and into the emanating heat from the fireplace. They ended up sprawled on the floor, limbs locked and Jubilee on top.

"Always gotta be on top, don't ya," Bobby remarked smugly.

"You better believe it, Sno-Cone."

Her dark hair fell to his cheeks, their faces not far apart, as she lingered atop him, considering her options. Having only returned to the Institute less than three months ago, her success with rekindling a flame with Bobby Drake had been growing steadily.

Though they'd never really dated prior to her initial leave from the team, back when Bayville's Board of Education was considering banning mutants from public schools, there had always been sparks that rivaled the ones originated from her powers. They were two pranksters, two carefree individuals who enjoyed humor and comic relief, and they constantly fed off one another. Jubilee was the wild child and Bobby was the jokester, but together they brought out a repressed side, a facet of their personalities not commonly viewed by their peers. Mr. Sensitive, Jubilee had taken to calling the ice mutant, was a moniker that always agitated him. But contrary to what most saw in him, Jubilee found a kind heart and comforting compassion. He was someone who could always make her laugh, who frequently looked out for her, and he could be so sweet at times. Though she was unsure as to what exactly Bobby brought out in her, she knew it was something only he could deduce for her. But the main point was that she felt special, she felt _wanted_, when she was with this boy. Anyone who could make her feel like that would've won her heart in a second, but Bobby's witty antics, his sensitive heart, and his friendly banter only further guaranteed it. She felt dizzy thinking about it, intoxicated by the thought of a loving, caring boyfriend who would protect her and always make her laugh. Bobby Drake was unlike any other guy she'd ever met.

"Hey, beautiful."

"Huh?" Jubilee reacquainted herself with reality, looking down at the face beneath hers.

"What're you thinking 'bout?" He asked, his hand running up her back. Mutant powers or not, his touch sent shivers reverberating down her spine.

"You," she responded, smiling as her raven hair dangled and tickled his cheeks.

"No, really? I mean, how could you not?" Bobby closed his eyes and attempted a charming smile.

"Mr. Modest," Jubilee surmised, rolling off him and onto her knees. She leaned back against the couch and watched the flames.

Bobby opened his eyes and rolled onto his chest. "You ever see a frozen flame?"

Questioningly curious, Jubilee eyed the boy doubtfully. "Won't your powers just melt or extinguish it?"

"Let's see."

Reaching out to grasp the licking flames, Bobby iced his hand and dug into the fiery domain of the fireplace, manipulating the moisture in the air and focusing on the flames. Mesmerized, Jubilee watched his hand venture towards the fire, but then her sights caught his face framed by dancing firelight, and her breath drew in. She couldn't break the stare, until a high-pitched "_Ow!_" shattered the silence.

Recoiling, between blowing on his hand, Bobby gave a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders. Jubilee rolled her eyes, but her amusement shined through with a happy grin. "You're alright, Bobby Drake."

"Thanks," he replied blankly, sucking on his tender fingers. Jubilee giggled and leaned into the fireplace, watching the fiery dances taking place in the hearth, tendrils of heat coaxing her skin, as she indulged in the sea of warmth and admired the simple but captivating act of a flickering fire.

Suddenly, his arms looped around her and drew her back against his chest, as Bobby rested his chin atop her head. Then he breathed in her fragrance and parted her dark tresses, tickling the nape of her neck with his lips. His strong arms held her tight, and Jubilee felt a warmth descend on her that a fireplace fire could never, ever provide. She didn't know how to respond.

His heartbeat pulsated from his chest into her back pressed against it, a soft beat that slowly increased to a more excited repetition. Jubilee smiled and closed her eyes, focusing on Bobby's heart as it thumped between her shoulder blades.

"Nice?" Bobby asked in a whisper, his lips mere inches from her ear.

"Yes."

He sculpted his position around her frame, finding a way for her to fit inside his arms and against his chest with the most comfort, her slender frame nestled in his muscled one. The fire cracked in front of them, now its allure capturing both of their attention.

Resisting the urge to turn around, Jubilee did not want to interrupt the intimate moment by taking it to where things might get awkward. Sitting like this was worth a kiss and she couldn't bear losing the moment because of her own actions.

But Bobby had similar intentions, as his mouth drew alongside her cheek, Jubilee tilting her head to the side so that their lips could touch. They locked briefly and Jubilee disappeared for a moment, lost in simple bliss, until she sensed someone in the doorway of the library.

"Ahem."

The two parted from one another quickly, Jubilee wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and Bobby pretending to cough. Ray was standing in the doorway, smirking.

"Really, the library? Of all the places..." He clicked his tongue in faux distaste.

"Get a life, Ray," Jubilee spat, crossing her arms over her chest.

"How sweet, Jubes. You must charm Bobby that same way."

"Don't you have some computer to short-circuit?" Bobby remarked, reminding Jubilee of the other boy's lack of success with operating electronics for more than five minutes at a time. Whenever something didn't work to Ray Crisp's approval, his temper got the best of him and the device was usually the one to suffer. Jubilee wanted to ask how much in property damages the electrical mutant had accumulated over the past year.

"It's not my fault the Professor supplies us with crappy materials that are in dire need of an update," Ray defended, stepping into the room. Jubilee and Bobby pushed themselves up from the floor and stood as Ray joined them.

Ray threw his arm around Jubilee's tiny shoulders and drew her to his side for a squeeze. "So what've you two lovebirds been up to lately?" Jubilee snaked out from beneath his arm and stepped towards Bobby.

"We were just leaving."

"Come on," Ray whined, "talk with me, babe. I got nothing else better to do tonight, seeing as all us New Mutants are on lockdown 'cause of that screw-up in the DR yesterday."

"Which you caused," Bobby pointed out, putting his arm around Jubilee and leading her past Ray, who began to backtrack alongside them.

"That was _so_ Roberto's fault, man! That cocky dude got overconfident and let me take the fall for it."

"And then your temper cost us the session. And you wonder why you're not the team leader?" Bobby said.

Ray frowned and stepped in between him and the doorway. "Ya got a lot to say without much to back it up, Bobby. You're the team leader, so ultimately, it's your fault, right? We lose, you're screwed, end of story."

"Whatever, _Berzerker_. Just go read that _Playboy_ you stole from Logan the other night."

Eyes widening, Ray grabbed Bobby by the shirtfront and flung him into the opposite wall in the hallway. "_Hey!_ I said I was joking about that, alright?"

"Leave him alone, Ray!" Jubilee threatened, stepping in between the two boys.

"_Yeah, Ray_," Bobby mocked snidely from behind the girl. Ray's jaw clenched and his teeth gritted as he moved towards Bobby.

Jubilee stuck her hands out and pressed her palms against Ray's chest, trying to sustain him. "Stop it, Ray, or I will leave you with a burn so bad you'll be crying to Dr. McCoy in the Med Bay."

Her hands glowed over Ray's shirt, illuminating both his face and hers. After glancing down at his chest and then back up at her, he grunted a sigh but did not step back. "Like your little fireworks hurt, Jubes."

"Try me and see."

He smiled down at her with what seemed like slight interest, but Jubilee blinked and forced the thought from her mind. His eyes left her hands and traveled along her arms to her chest, to her hips and her legs.

_Quit imagining things!_ She demanded of herself, looking away. Now, she could feel Ray's heart beating beneath her hands pressing up to his pectorals. She shivered and remembered Bobby standing behind her, feeling dizzy and queasy all at the same time.

"Hey, you're burning my shirt!"

Jubilee gasped and looked up, and sure enough, her energy sparks were eating away the fabric of Ray's T-shirt, leaving two holes the size of her palms in the front of his shirt.

She almost apologized, but then she ordered, "Leave us alone or I'll completely ruin it. Make your choice, Ray."

"Yeah, your dignity or your precious shirt," Bobby added, his tone smug.

Jubilee hoped the other boy would just back off; no doubt any ensuing brawl would lead to injuries and punishments, and Jubilee knew that the Professor was notorious for the reprimands he dealt out. After she, Bobby, and Sam had taken the Blackbird for a joyride with Lance and Kitty aboard, the trio had received a month's worth of cleaning the aircraft, tidying up the DR after _Logan's_ training sessions, along with extra chores like laundry detail or kitchen cleanup. It had been over a year ago, but Jubilee had yet to forget the aching her muscles did through the whole month-long ordeal.

Some of the tension in Ray dissipated, but he was still eyeing Bobby venomously. Reluctantly, he took a step back and away from Jubilee's hands, revealing that his shirt was already undoubtedly ruined.

Suddenly, Sam Guthrie's shaggy mane popped out from around the corner of the hallway. "Somebody's comin' ta the front door!"

The trio in front of the library cast dismissible glances in his direction.

"Ah'll rephrase that. Somebody's _flyin' _ta the front door. It looks like a girl." Sam drawled in his Southern accent, eliciting some intrigued looks from his fellow teammates. It wasn't everyday a new mutant arrived, flying and at night, for that matter.

Jubilee led the two other boys as the group followed Sam around the corner and through the corridor until they reached the landing of the massive staircase in the brightly-lit foyer. The four mutants descended the stairs hurriedly, as Logan appeared from one of the foyer entrances to the side of the staircase.

"_Scram!_" He shouted at them, but with their curiosity perked, the group bypassed his command and followed the loner mutant to the main entrance doors, as a figure appeared on the front steps, waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

When the doors opened, Jubilee's eyes were quickly drawn to the stranger's attire, cashmere and denim, smeared with soot and grime, tattered and frayed in several places. Her gaze drew to the stranger's face, composed of soft, pretty features, also darkened by smoke and soot, her flowing blonde hair tainted by grime and filth, as if she'd recently escaped a fire. Her eyes were glowing, not because of any mutation, but they sported an ethereal quality of frenzied antipathy. Her anger was directed elsewhere, but Jubilee couldn't help but feel the heat emanating from the young woman.

"What can I do for ya?" Logan offered, his tone calm but with a twinge of suspicion.

"I need to speak with Professor Xavier," the woman replied flatly, insistently.

"What for?"

"There's…there's been an explosion at the restaurant where I work. It's…more than a mutant hate crime."

"Explain," Logan said, hardly ushering her in but at least moving to the side so she didn't have to remain on the door stoop.

"_Macaulay's_ off 5th Street North, downtown. Owned by a Mr. Worthington III."

Logan grumbled, already realizing where things were leading.

"It's a mutant-friendly establishment. About an hour ago, it was bombed. I have no idea how many civilians were hurt, but I know some mutants were kidnapped."

A flash of indignation rose in Logan's eyes. He growled and bore down on the girl, snarling, "_Who?_"

The girl refused to shy away from Logan's intimidating demeanor, his presence failing to faze her, and his gruff voice hardly enough to earn a shudder. "I managed to pull two boys out into the alleyway. One of them had red glasses and the other had abnormal eyes. There were two girls with them…"

"Jean and Rogue," Ray offered, stating the obvious to the others who already knew the two couples. Furious at the interruption, Logan glared at him with a silencing effect.

The girl continued quickly. "I didn't catch their names. One was a redhead and the other had these white streaks for bangs. The redhead…she left the table before the explosion, and I haven't seen her since, and I don't know about the other girl. I went straight to the guys who set off the explosion. I…I couldn't get the name of their employer**-----**it was obvious that they didn't devise everything themselves**-----**but then I was overpower by one of their weapons."

"Who'd do such a thing?" Jubilee asked, her voice a mix of anger and wretchedness.

"Oh, only about the whole human population of Bayville," Bobby answered. Jubilee flinched from his bitter tone, blinking at him and his unwavering frown.

"_Guys!_" Kitty's shrill voice sounded, as everyone turned to find her phasing through the wall in mid-stride. "The news report's saying there was an explosion in downtown Bayville! They're saying it was targeted at mutants!"

"It was also a ploy," the blonde girl stated, causing Kitty to halt and regard the newcomer hesitantly. "The explosion was meant to draw attention away from an abduction attempt."

"H-how do you know?" Kitty asked.

"They nabbed Jean and Rogue," Ray said bluntly.

"And Mr. Worthington," the girl added.

"W-what? Who was behind it? I-I mean, why**-----**"

"Go find the Professor, Half-Pint," Logan ordered. He hadn't used the moniker in a long while, but Kitty responded quickly, turning and dashing up the stairs. He looked over at the others. "Go help!"

Ray, Sam and Jubilee jumped from the barking tone, but Bobby was already chasing Kitty to the staircase. The trio joined their field leader in search of their mentor.

"What's your name, Blondie?"

The woman narrowed her eyes, abstaining from scolding or any kind of retort. Logan seemed to have a nickname for everybody, but they were hardly ever demeaning.

She pushed past him, intent on contributing to the search for the Professor, and regarded Logan from over her shoulder. "_Carol _Danvers," she said, before taking flight into the air, soaring past the hanging chandelier and into an adjoining corridor, leaving Logan a little dumbfounded and plenty intrigued.

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The dazzling nightlife illumination of Bayville's downtown array of skyscraper buildings and myriads of neon and fluorescent in the motorcycle's rearview mirror faded away like a brief afterthought. Chilly winds whipped Remy LeBeau's body, seeping through the rips and tears in his clothing and biting his exposed flesh. The icy air prickled his face like tiny stalactites, causing him to constantly blink his eyes. He wished that he'd taken his trench coat, his faithful trademark that was always able to keep him warm. Instead, as the night continued to churn towards twilight, still many hours away, the temperature continued to plunge and the rush of air battled Remy, as he coasted along the Interstate on his bike in only a tattered T-shirt and frayed jeans. His arms rippled with gooseflesh, as did his chest and his back, all vulnerable to the freezing gusts. His head still felt a little stuffy and his vision blurred ever so slightly, but he had no other choice than to steer his only means of greater-distanced transportation into the dark night, skirting beneath the orange glows lining the large road.

Escaping the tunnels had been a cinch, and his return to the surface had forced a greater degree of stealth, as the partly-demolished restaurant was swarming with city officials and curious pedestrians. His bike had been sitting with the shadows, untouched and in the parking lot. Before anyone had noticed the conspicuous, battered man in tattered clothing, covered in soot and blood and stalking the lot, Remy had exited the block with a high-pitched squeal of his tires.

Not long afterwards, he'd cleared the city limits, via the Interstate, and was currently spying for the correct exit that would signal his turn.

He spotted it almost too late, veering off the road and onto the exit ramp with a screech, gliding dangerously close to the asphalt. Had he not been so apt at handling the vehicle, even in a slightly groggy state, the turn would've been mangled. But Remy descended the circling ramp and turned onto a deserted road that ventured into the woods. Once he spotted the crushed undergrowth and separation within the adjacent forestry, Remy left the road and headed down the path, his wheels banging thick roots cast through the earth. He held tight to the bike handles, enduring the racking jolts that surged through the bike and into his body, reawakening dulled pain inhabiting his muscles. He began to fear a worse predicament after a jarring bounce almost caused him a groin injury, but the chaotic ride lasted only a few more seconds before the tires met the slick grass of a clearing. Instantly slowing, Remy planted his foot to keep from spilling off the bike on the slippery ground, coaxing the vehicle to a full stop and cutting the ignition. He removed himself tenderly, a newfound discomfort circulating through his rear end and groin area, thanks to the rough escapade. It was certainly not motorcycle terrain, and Remy had the pains to prove it.

The moon peaked from behind its gray veil, casting a waterfall of lunar light down to the clearing, illuminating the hollowed and gutted warehouse. Remy breathed in the sweet, cool air, and trekked to the back of the forgotten warehouse.

In front of his feet, the ground separated by a slit and allowed a mechanized platform to reach the surface. Remy stepped onto the platform and pressed a button, watching the moon disappear as the ground resealed above his head.

The descent was short-lived, no more than fifty feet deep. An immaculate, fluorescent-lit corridor greeted Remy with its expressionless steel interior, looking simple and somewhat futuristic. A little foreboding, too, combined with the silence disturbed only by the clatter of his footsteps singing atop the metal.

He headed down the elongated corridor, itself a dead end but still acting as the main vestibule of the underground domain with smaller branches of corridors extending to the left and right. The containment area was to the left, along with the experiment tables, storage, stasis tubes, and unused rooms or extra laboratories. The right-hand pathways led to sleeping quarters, the main labs, a medical station, and the control room. Remy strolled the corridor, his usual nonchalant saunter put off by his growing anxiety. He selected the second door on the right and entered a much tinier hallway, equally lit and metal-aligned, but with a lower ceiling and hardly wide enough for two people going opposite directions to pass one another.

The first door on his left was the widest and the thickest**-----**the entrance to the control room. It opened upon his arrival, granting him access from the inside. He stepped in and listened to the massive doors close behind him with an electrical hum.

"Did you accomplish what you were set out to do?"

Remy regarded the figure with his back turned, seated in the chair facing the control console, his front side lit by the milky glow of the surveillance screens. Other than the light that emanated off the console, the small, circular room was too dark to distinguish much else.

"_Naturellement _(Of course). Only one problem, though. Rogue was _not_ s'pose t' be nabbed. She wasn't a part of dis."

"Plans change, my dear boy. You cannot envision every altering of direction, but you can anticipate gaining from failures. Rogue was not initially a part of the plan, but her presence is still needed. I can offer her something that no one else can**-----**in exchange for something, as always. Compensation can be an enlightening reward."

"Dat's _enough_! Release her or…"

The following silence filled with tension, but Remy could not back his threat in the least. The man sitting in front of him had too many variable hanging over the Cajun's head. He'd given him a taste of power and control, but alas, a sword hung overhead, restrained by only a thin horsehair, and Remy, though not one to fold for any bluffs, did not want to test this man and thereby doom himself. His shady supervisor wielded unmatched authority, faltering any defiance and all but forcing Remy to be dutiful. Especially now, with Rogue at his disposal, his mysterious administrator had an even greater hold on him.

Remy imagined a maligned smirk carved across the faceless man sitting in the dark, bathing in the glow of the control room console. "Once you complete the final task, our connection will be severed and Rogue will be spared. But compromise the mission, Mr. LeBeau, and you can only begin to imagine the fate you've condemned her to. Betray me, Gambit, and I will go through her before I come after you. Do we have an understanding?"

Grimly, Remy nodded, feeling his earlier indignation doused by the menacing ultimatum.

"The team you assembled is awaiting your arrival in the containment area. All you have to do is lead them through the sewers. I trust you've acquired knowledge of the location?"

Remy nodded, queasiness growing inside his gut.

"Excellent work. Your subterfuge skills are developing rather nicely. Now, brief the others on the mission and head out in an hour. You're free to do whatever you like between the briefing and your leave within the hour."

Realizing the conversation had ended, Remy turned as the doors opened automatically and stepped out into the hall.

"Oh, and Mr. LeBeau, feel free to go visit Rogue in the Med Lab," the man called after him, his voice deep and unnerving, as the doors commended to close. "I'm sure she would love to see you."

Sick to his stomach from the damming of guilt, Remy LeBeau fell back against the metal wall, cursing the man who had succeed in manipulating him like no one else ever had, a man he hardly knew or respected, but a man who nonetheless drove fear into his heart, a plunging dagger that serrated his chest and made him bleed the crimson lies and scarlet deceit that he had been storing up behind their backs all of this time.

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**Author's Note**: Well, there you have it! Our first baddie has made his appearance. But will he be the big bad of this story? And what of the X-men, with three of their own abducted, and another two missing? There wasn't too much physical action going on in this chapter, but hopefully any suspicions and/or questions were cleared up from the last chapter. I also hope that the Bobby/Jubilee scene went well. I think they're a strong couple even if they didn't get much screentime on Evo. And please remember to _review_! Ask questions, make predictions, or just send some nice feedback. It's all much appreciated. Thank yous to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, or just reading! Please continue to enjoy the story.

**Next Time**: _Chapter V: Experiments_

Jean, Rogue, and Warren soon discover the reasons behind their abduction, which turn out to be more twisted and diabolical than they could've imagined, as dark fascination slowly begins to unravel the captive mutants. Scott reunites with the X-men and prepares to save his teammates, while Remy completes his mission only to learn of a _major_ detail his boss forgot to mention, leaving him wading deeper into a guilty abyss.

-fathoms-


	5. Experiments

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

**By**: InnerFathoms

**Setting**: A few months post-'Ascension.'

**Summary**: The visions glimpsed in Apocalypse's mind by Professor Charles Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the "greatest mind in the world" is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.

**Discretions**: The doctor from this chapter is in fact a mutant. Guess her identity if you want. Another mutant makes her first appearance near the end of the chapter; the group Gambit assembled is varied slightly from the comicverse group of mutants he recruited. And the "experiment" of the chapter was actually performed by Apocalypse in the comics, though it is not his doing in this story.

**Pairings**: Nothing new here.

**Genre-Rating**: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance

**Disclaimer**: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.

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**_Chapter V: Experiments_**

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When consciousness came, it forgot to tell Warren.

His eyes refused to open, his heart refused to beat, and his mind refused to think, as all of the focus concentrated on only one aspect: fear. Simply put, it was eating him from the inside out, rusty chains binding him everywhere, like a man sinking to the ocean's deepest fathoms without sight or movement. The darkness of the sea was the darkness of the cell, or whatever it was that he was in. If the people who'd gone through so much to capture him and maim his restaurant were the ones holding him, then they were likely to make sure his means of escape were close to none.

Yet, despite the constricting fear he felt, no physical binds had been placed around Warren's body. Not that he felt like he could move on his own, actually.

The pain was leaden inside of him; dull not fiery, but heavy enough to resemble the weighted-down feeling of his skin tissues being replaced with cement. The burden of pain was too much to accommodate any form of motion, albeit the slow rise and fall of his chest. Not even his eyelids could lift.

However, his senses were returning to normal with the arrival of consciousness, and the sound of footsteps reached his ears. Warren acknowledged them, focused on them with his foggy head, hoping that the passing of time would quickly restore equilibrium to his mind. Otherwise, he was doomed to lie on the floor, unable to wither with discomfort or even scan his surroundings. The intruding footsteps**-----**soft enough to indicate a light-weight person**-----**were a welcome break from the silence.

They paused within a foot of his head, somewhat muffled by a barrier he could not see. A stranger's eyes burned into him; the feeling of being watched was not easily overlooked. He wondered if the room he was lying in was pitch black, or if his lack of sight only led him to believe that he was without any source of illumination.

A mechanical hum drew his attention to the left, and then to his right, as something**-----**possibly a sliding door**-----**parted with the floor and slid up into the top of the containment cell's threshold. With a whisper _click_ from above, the rising door completed its ascent and allowed full access to the cell. Had Warren been a fourth less physically drained than his current condition, he would've forced his body to attempt an escape, wings curled in front of him to create a battering ram that would drive his visitor backwards. Despite the desperate urge for action, the winged mutant's taxed muscles would not work, and the pain in his wing was ready to sneak up and render him into a worse condition. He vaguely recalled a bullet piercing the feathery appendage, but the pain had been numbed, whether by time or drugs, he did not know. All he could do was feign unconsciousness and hope his visitor had not come with dark intentions, but with news concerning his present situation instead.

A small hand of soft skin touched his temple, fingers tracing down the not-so-fresh gashes along his cheek. The hand swept off the cliff of his jaw and settled onto the left side of his torso, coaxing a very tender spot along his shoulder. Somebody had cleaned and dressed his wound, though Warren could not imagine the low-lives who'd kidnapped him and decimated his establishment giving him medical attention. Mutant-haters just didn't have a turn-of-heart like that, especially after committing such heinous acts.

Warren felt his arm being lifted and inspected, and then his other arm. He was rolled off his side, exposing more of his back and wings. The hand trekked down the curvature of his spine in the center of his broad back, gingerly moving towards the skin tissue encompassing the origins of his massive wings. He was turned back onto his side, so that he would not accidentally roll onto his back and further injure his bruised wing.

His visitor brushed a few stray hairs from over his closed eyes and smoothed them back. The touches were too gentle, too contentious and subtle to be a man's, which would also explain the soft, almost soundless footsteps. Warren had no recollection of a woman being among the perpetrators of the bomb in his restaurant.

"Is he ready for the transformation, Doctor?"

Warren stirred, pinpointing a second presence farther away that had gone unnoticed the whole time he'd been awake.

"Doctor?"

"Yes," the woman kneeling next to Warren said. "Yes…he's healed surprisingly well. One could suspect a healing factor, possibly traced to his blood."

"Interesting…The operation should go smoother then. Your requested preparations have been fulfilled for the procedure, Doctor. I trust that you have already observed the details concerning this project?"

"…Yes."

"Then there will be no further inquiry. I will have him escorted from this room shortly. Feel free to adventure some, Doctor. This is an experiment, after all. There are neither moral nor financial boundaries for you to consider. Nor will the ramifications come to light of your knowledge. This is a test of your expertise and an opportune time to push the scientific envelope. You will be creating something very special, Doctor."

The voice drifted away without the accompanying sound of footsteps. "And remember to refrain from letting ethics hinder progress. A good conscience is a terrible restriction to this science, my dear."

No door opened or shut; Warren was left to believe that a ghost had been doing all the talking and had just left by way of incorporeal travel. He didn't want to believe that a human could sound so sophisticatedly cold-hearted and nonchalant.

"I…don't want to hurt you, Warren. Please know that…under true circumstances I would never subject anyone to experiments. It's not the kind of doctor I am."

His muscles grew livid, still refusing to move but hardly untouched by the tension of apprehensive anticipation. It was a feeling akin to that of venturing into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. A cold sweat broke out, slicking his skin in due time, as the doctor continued to look over him.

Her hand found his and squeezed it. "Any man can forget. Only the bravest can forgive."

He sensed her removing something from her pocket. "The healing factor present in your bloodstream will compensate for some of the procedure. Anesthesia will cover the rest. You won't feel anything, Warren." She drew in a deep breath. "That's only half the problem, though. I don't know how to prevent the rest of the horror."

Unable to move, to resist or shout any protests, Warren was terrified in his bed of silence, incapable of escaping the fate about to befall him, whatever it was. The words he was hearing iced his veins with anxiety, made him feel trapped and helpless. He was no better off than someone tied to a railroad with a speeding locomotive barreling in his direction. This was worse in a way**-----**in the imagined scenario, he would be able to see the train coming. In reality, it was going to blindside him, and no amount of fathoming could prepare him for what was about to jump out from the shadows and begin the insanity.

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Being open-minded and optimistic was one of the strongest, most reliable defenses Carol Danvers possessed, in a world that was becoming increasingly fraught by mindless persecution. Differences were not valued, they were disdained. Special talents were scrutinized, and the accused were regarded no higher than a scourge in need of eradication.

Carol Danvers was a mutant, but neither proud nor pitiful. She was made to be who she was for a reason, and there was no changing it. The strength, the flight, the "seventh sense" perception were as much of a part of her as the blonde hair and blue eyes. Regret was hard to avoid when she was looked upon like an outsider, or even a threat, but bathing in a sea of self-pity and self-depreciation would serve her in no way.

To survive, her inner strength must match that of her superhuman asset. A weak mind and broken spirit would lead to the corruption of her character. Despite having never played any superhero roles, Carol would never falter in choosing between _hero_ and _villain_.

With this night's prior events, her apprenticeship into either camp seemed inevitable. Her indifference to Bayville's mutant factions had been shattered by the fact that she had been drawn onto the beach where lines in the sand were drawn. Humans played a part, too, some of them choosing to side with their weapons and destruction to compensate for their crippling fear. The X-men were some of the city's unsung heroes, and one with an open mind who watched the news and observed the streets could not miss this. Mutant propaganda, hate crimes, fear, confusion, and bigotry mixed into the melting pot of Bayville's human populace, further distancing them from the group of mutants who only wanted to make a difference and protect those who hated them so.

Carol didn't want to be hated for being different. Such an unfair accusation was beyond her control; she was a born a mutant and no medical drugs or procedure could change that**-----**not that she would ever take anything like that.

But she could stand in the background no longer; she could never be another face in the crowd. Though only her parents, Mr. Worthington, and a few select others knew of her mutation, the entire town would soon discover her secret if she joined the vigilant team of superhero mutants.

Losing one identity for another, no matter how much the newer one would be loathed by the public, was worth the chance to save both humans and mutants. She'd never been around others like her; the notion was new and exciting, even in the darkening times. She would not live in the shadows forever, especially when people like the X-men were using their powers forsaken by the public to save those very people and thwart the dark plots of other mutants.

She wanted to fight the good fight, and it was a fight that required sacrifices for the greater good. It wasn't something she could forego with a simple bat of an eye or turn of the head**-----**inexplicably, Carol Danvers was a part of the increasingly dangerous world of mutants, and she wasn't about to sit back and play passive-aggressive.

The progenitor to the group of Bayville's most notable mutants sat across from Carol, his fingers forming a steeple beneath his chin as he looked at her with a contemplative gaze, his eyes showing signs of weariness but also a fierce understanding forged by fires over the years.

"Miss Danvers," he began, addressing her in a cordial tone. "I thank you for your willingness to come out here and alert us of this plight. Your assertiveness is a very deeming quality and is most respectful."

"Thank you."

He gave her a warm smile. "Many budding mutants out there would fear coming into our fold and "proclaiming" themselves as mutants to the world. Few, like you, would repress that fear to find a place for themselves in this tumultuous town." Professor Xavier's gaze turned grim. "I fear Bayville is becoming a dangerous vista for mutants, and our presence, even as a haven to young mutants, will soon fall short to compensate for all the hatred and distrust forced upon our kind. It is something we must look past instead of fight, or our efforts will be in vain. Whether humans accept us or not, there will always be malice to ward off and disastrous plots to prevent, and we are the ones who are fit for that role."

"I want to be someone, Professor. I mean…I just don't want to hide from all this. The fact that I'm a mutant puts me in this situation, and I know that trying to avoid it will be a major regret."

"It _is_ becoming a very dark world for mutants, Carol. You are less vulnerable surrounded by those like you, mutants who have learned to control and harness their powers. But please, don't feel like you must join us. There are plenty of mutants who are living without persecution, who don't want to join sides. I will think nothing less of you for wanting to retain your innocence."

Carol bit her lip and stared at her hands resting atop her lap. "I want to find an innocent identity among humans, but it will always be false and it'll eventually crumble, Professor. Even the best façades, the ones with good intentions, can't last forever. I have these powers…but I don't want to be self-serving. It's just…not who I am."

"Your attitude is commendable, Carol. I feel your place on the team would be a strong fit. Please, I want you to consider this for yourself, and not for the benefit of anyone else. If you truly feel that this would be the best course of action, then you should**-----**"

He paused, closing his eyes and grunting.

"Professor?" Carol stood up from her seat, alarmed.

"Scott…" He opened his eyes, looking even wearier and now distressed. "Please excuse me, Miss Danvers. Feel free to roam around the mansion and meet some of the other students. I will contact you shortly."

When he disappeared from view, Carol collapsed back into the chair and dropped her head into her hands. She tried desperately to cling to reality in this tempest, and she hoped that her better judgment would shine through the storm. Maybe she didn't have to join the X-men, but there was no way she would be able to completely omit them from her life now.

With a growing sense of dread, Carol Danvers realized that she was being dragged into a war; her neutrality was a thing of the past and it was time to make a decision.

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The doctor was not a liar.

Warren felt no pain as he lay facedown on the gunnery table in the room; he drifted in and out of consciousness, blinded by bright lights with the occasional masked face appearing in a blur. The drugs partially nullified his senses; he could smell no blood, no sweat, and he could not hear the doctor working with her tools. His perception of time had dissipated prior to reaching the room while being dragged along by faceless lackeys who snickered in his ear and whispered to each other.

A hushed voice told him everything was alright and that his vital signs were well. The voice told him to not be afraid, but that he was going to be moved off the gunnery. Someone other than the doctor lifted him off the table and set him standing. Warren wondered if he was going to topple onto the floor with lifeless effort, as his bare feet squeaked in something slick along the tiles. But his blurry vision caught a hold of some strange contraption, its image looking even more foreign due to the distortion of his sight.

The unseen secondary figure pushed him towards the machine, which somehow resembled an iron maiden, sans the deadly spikes. He fell into the upright sarcophagus, while his fear fought wildly to break through his drug-induced calmness, like a sheet of ice preventing his terror from breaking the surface. He felt it clawing for liberation, but the induced sobriety could not be thwarted by his fleeting emotions buried deep inside.

Warren turned around as the machine's cover clamped close with a silent _click_, sealing him inside and breeding a sense of claustrophobia that allied with his earlier terror of this unknown mechanism. The words _experiment_ and _transformation_ whirled through his head, as the mysterious voice he had heard earlier rang with foreboding clarity. The mechanical coffin tilted back until it reached a horizontal position. Slowly, it slid backwards as if on a conveyer belt transporting him. The drugs made him drowsy, and the panic registering in his mind did not affect his body. His heartbeat rated a slow pace, hardly that of someone being fueled by adrenaline terror. He closed his eyes to the darkness and found that his mind was too foggy to focus on anything. Unable to escape, to sense his instincts or even pain, Warren remained in his empty shell state, worried about what was coming but almost too tired to care. His mind was slipping back into unconsciousness; the mechanical hum was soft and rhythmical.

When the top of the casket automatically pried itself open, Warren blacked out, oblivious to the array of needle-like devices looming over him. A long, thin spike lowered towards him with that same mechanical hum that had lolled him to a convenient sleep. Twin pincers grappled each of his arms, forcing him in place. Had he been conscious, resistance would've been impossible. With the mercy of his slumber, he could not agonize over the needle-point device dipping into his flesh. The anesthesia reigned over him, and Warren felt nothing in his sleep, while the spindle pierced the dressing over his shoulder wound, protruding through the congealed blood and drawing a fresh dose from his veins. Like an inorganic leech, the needle sucked his blood through a miniscule opening at its point. A stray crimson trickle descended along his side, as the needle slid out from the wound and the bandaging, the white cloth soaking red.

A second hovered near his navel, while a metallic band shot out and wrapped itself around his throat, loose enough to allow the circulation of oxygen but little movement of his head. Other gleaming metal strips appeared from the right and hooked over to the left, one reaching over his chest and another over his waist. Thicker, wider bands slid over his knees and two tinier ones arced along his ankles.

The spikes prodded Warren in multiple places, most of them piercing and disappearing into his flesh with little intrusion and rarely any signs of blood other than his shoulder wound trickling freely but thinly. Something came up from beneath him, stabbing into his back and thrusting his torso upwards, wet sounds falling on deaf ears. His skin took on a gray parlor at first, the lackluster hue slowly melting into that of cerulean, then teal, and finally a deep blue.

After the transformation of his skin tissues, the needles retreated upwards and faded into the ceiling, harboring a supply of his blood as it escaped. The casket shifted its position until Warren was facing the floor, eyes closed and blonde locks trailing his temples. The metal binding kept him in place and prevented him from falling onto the dark floor, as new devices descended towards his back. The hotness on his back flowed without his knowing, and the shifting of metal alloy sang to the empty room. The devices configured the implants and worked through the crimson haze, articulating and grafting.

The device continued until the implants were structured to his bones and muscles, the metal flexing on Warren's accord, as he tested them out in his sleep, unaware of all that he was subjected to and what he had become. The metallic wings moved silently, their alloy sleek and sharp. His inorganic appendages folded onto his wet back. His burning nerves screamed, and the device continued to work with making more grafts and patching up the damage. A needle injected unknown fluids and more surgical work proceeded.

The man behind the single glass pane watched diligently, his arms folded and a small grin playing across his dark lips. The metal table turned Warren upwards, exposing his placid face to the man behind the glass. He wondered how much that expression would change when the young man opened his eyes and looked around the blindingly white room, currently painted red around him. He would see to it that the doctor would treat the physical pains of the boy, but his healing factor would greatly quicken the process. However, the man considered reveling in the emotional horror that would ensue; the bitter bewilderment and dark disbelief that would dawn on the Worthington heir. The boy was a fine specimen and would be manipulated into a formidable warrior. The forces of the man behind the glass were steadily increasing in size and power, and there was still much work to be done.

Though the patient could not hear or feel anything through his sleep, the man behind the glass did not let this prevent him from pressing an intercom button. His dark eyes glowed fiercely, and the delight in his voice was evident.

"Sleep long and hard, my boy. For as long as you sleep, there will be peace. But once you awaken, your world will be born anew, and the horror will be a reality. Everything is changing and inevitable is unavoidable…young _Archangel_."

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Upon entering the underground tunnels and receiving instructions from their recruiter, the group of mutants disbanded into three separate factions, each plotting their own course through the underbelly of Bayville and designating the location where they would converge on the sewer-dwellers.

Each step along the concrete sent quivers of guilt through Remy LeBeau's body that wrenched his stomach, seized his chest, and exploded in his skull. He surprised himself by keeping a steady walking pace, moving about the tunnels with honed stealth despite the tides turning inside of him. His dear Rogue…the only one he cared about at the institute. Every step he took was at her expense; she was a prisoner because of him. His selfish indulgences, the need for control, had set him up to be taken advantage of. Frequently he wondered if Rogue had seen through his charm during the date. Had her emerald gaze pierced through his façade?

"The boss said to take no prisoners," Sabretooth said in his usual snarling tone, though this time with a touch of twisted humor.

"Liar, the boss said nothing of the sort."

The giant's feral gaze flashed at the woman next to him. Her purple ponytail swayed behind her slender back, sashaying with indifference equal to that of her demeanor.

Much to Remy's surprise, Sabretooth did not pursue the matter, instead choosing to give a guttural growl, menacing but hardly in comparison to the carnage he could inflict. The woman could hold her own; Remy had seen it himself. Her martial arts skills were formidable; her innate agility and gymnastic quickness made her skills even deadlier. Physically, she was stunning with Asian features and sleek muscularity. Her mind, however, was a place Remy did not care to vouch for.

"We are to capture and obtain the mutants with the strongest potential. You can have your fun with the rest of their kind."

"Yeah, we'll be 'thinning out the gene pool' as he put it."

The falter in Remy's stride almost cost him dearly. Neither of his accomplices saw it, and none of them suspected his hesitancy. Resisting the waves of guilt became harder, but this was what Remy had anticipated. Beyond the lies and deception he had played with the X-men**-----**with Rogue**-----**was the double-cross he had planned for this team of mutant mercenaries. Upon recruiting them, he had no idea that it was their boss's intention for them to eradicate the Morlocks. With his fears confirmed, Remy had no choice of escaping the betrayal he was about to orchestrate. Possibly, he could hinder the operation and alert the X-men to save the Morlocks, but he was traveling with two deadly mutants who would have no second thoughts about eliminating a traitor. Once Remy had learned that he was leading a mutant genocide, his acting skills were truly tested. No doubt his boss had suspected him of deceit, but it was the only option to escape the lifetime of guilt that he would earn for leading a 'mutant massacre'. All because he had sought a favor in one shady dealer. The boss had him trapped; resisting and aborting the mission would endanger both himself and Rogue.

There was no way Remy LeBeau could bear the responsibility of a mutant slaughter. If he could elude the two accomplices with him, he could contact the X-men in time for them to arrive and protect the Morlocks. His boss would not know about his treachery, and Remy would have a chance to ally himself with the X-men once more before it was too late. As long as they could prevent any of the mercenaries from escaping and alerting their boss, Remy would have ample time to devise a rescue mission for Rogue and the others.

"_Stop._"

The single word brought him out of his pensive reverie, and Remy paused in the darkness of the tunnel. As he turned towards the two mutants behind him, a sickening realization struck him in the gut. He had so carelessly flung about his incriminating thoughts, forgetting that he was moving through these tunnels with a telepath.

Even this insight and Remy's reflexes were not enough to save him in time. Sabretooth's claws tore across his abdomen as he lurched backwards to avoid the swipe. Hot pain surged across his stomach and the blood poured freely, soaking through his uniform and hot along his skin. The blow took all his energy away, and Remy collapsed onto his side, hand clutching the five claw marks across his abdomen and applying pressure to the blood flow.

Sabretooth smiled down at him with a toothy grin, and the purple-haired assassin stepped over him and continued down the hall, commanding Sabretooth to leave the traitor behind. Reluctantly, the feral mutant complied and followed, leaving Remy alone, wounded, scared, and withering with pain and guilt. In the darkness of the sewers, he waited for unconsciousness to relieve him of the hot pain spreading along his torso.

Yet, before he could succumb to the overbearing agony, there was still something he could do.

Pulling out his cell phone from a pocket with his other hand, Remy LeBeau dialed the number to the Xavier Institute and began to make amends.

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**Author's Note**: Now, how many of you saw that coming? Okay, so some of you probably did. Anyways, Warren's transformation was originally engineered by Apocalypse to make him one of his four horsemen, Death, though after some time, and upon joining X-Factor, he took the codename Archangel. Now, this chapter should answer some questions on the 'Mutant Massacre' plot. Expect some changes, some of which are evident in the end of this chapter. Not saying if the woman's Betsy/Psylocke or Kwannon/Revanche, but it should become clear soon. Besides her and Sabretooth, there are six more members who have yet to show up. _Please_ remember to review! Feedback is appreciated! Comment or ask questions. Hope everyone's enjoying the story, and let me know if anything gets confusing. I will try to clear anything up.

**Next Time**: _Chapter VI: Fractured_

Ray learns of the Morlock's plight and leads his fellow teammates to rescue his former allies, while Scott heads up a team to investigate the abandoned warehouse discovered by Logan in his search for the missing X-men.

-fathoms-


	6. Fractured

**_Dark Side of the Moon_**

By: InnerFathoms

Setting: Few months post-'Ascension.'

Summary: The visions glimpsed from Apocalypse's mind by Charles Francis Xavier start to become a reality on the evening of Rogue's eighteenth birthday. Dear friends are lost, new allies are gained, dreams are betrayed, and the advent of darker days draws near. For Bayville's mutant population, everything is changing and the lines in the sand are fading. As they face the darker depths of what it means to be different, the idealist known as Professor X comes to realize the fragility of his dream. Even the 'greatest mind in the world' is powerless to stop the oncoming trials witnessed from a bleak future where his pupils are no longer the individuals he once believed them to be.

Discretions: A few references here and there. The line near the end of the chapter is the beginning of _The Spider and the Fly_, a poem by Mary Howitt, published in the early 1800's.

Pairings: Hints at Kitty/Piotr and Carol/Piotr, slight hints at Jamie/Rahne

Genre-Rating: Action, Adventure/Angst/Romance

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters or their histories, as they are licensed to Marvel and I am not making any profits.

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**_Chapter VI: Fractured_**

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For a man of such massive stature, Piotr Rasputin often disappeared in a crowd, his presence hardly detected among a group. A casual observer would not see him; not because he was invisible, but a man of such a somber and gentle demeanor could easily fade from view. Nobody meant to forget him, but his silent, pacifistic nature often left him to not be considered. This did not perturb the gentle giant; he was content with listening and only offered his say if it was required of him or important to the group discussion. The Russian preferred to be respected by his actions rather than his words. Besides, with so much going on, Piotr realized that the less he talked, the more he understood. Any inherent naivety on his behalf would only become apparent if he spoke. Being all ears earned him much more respect and incurred others to consider him a thoughtful introvert.

Only sweet Illyana brought out the chatterbox in her big brother.

But the younger Rasputin was tuck safely away back home, having been used as a means to keep Piotr in his Acolyte rank with Magneto, back when there had been a group of Acolytes. When Magneto had seemingly been vanquished at the hands of Apocalypse, Gambit had gone elsewhere, as had Sabretooth, possibly to Canada. Pyro had stayed with the fort, mindlessly replaying their master's demise via news recording. Piotr, known as Colossus then**-----**and still now, when in uniform**-----**had revisited his homeland to check on those he held close to his heart. Now, Illyana was fine and peaceful, though she missed her older brother. Piotr had considered bringing her back to America, to the Institute, and he had discussed it with the Professor. Both men agreed on her potential mutation and decided that if and when the young Rasputin experienced her change, then she would become a welcome addition to the X-men.

With his mind on his darling blonde of a baby sister, Piotr neglected to focus on the meeting being held in the briefing room. Scott was leading the discussion, talking mostly with the adults, gesturing furiously and grunting occasionally. He looked the same as he had upon entering through the foyer no more than fifteen minutes ago, claiming that the Morlocks had helped him after an explosion in a restaurant and declaring that Jean and Rogue were in danger. Though the young man could barely hold himself up, Piotr respected his adamancy in alerting the adults to the danger and going over everything that had occurred during the evening. His concern for his missing comrades was evident, especially for the one he called Jean. Exhaustion and fatigue had left their marks on Scott, though he said his injuries had been much worse but had been healed by one of the Morlocks.

Now wearing a pair of ruby shades, having come to the Institute without a pair, Scott continued to talk in a hurried, hushed tone to the Professor, Dr. McCoy, and Miss Ororo. Soot and smoke colored his complexion, mingled with perspiration that only complimented his strung-out look. The front of his shirt was torn open, exposing most of his chest, though no wound was evident. However, dried blood drenched the hanging tatters of his shirt and still graced his torso. A few cuts and bruises were also visible, but the young man in shredded clothing, covered in grime and somehow keeping himself from collapsing, finished briefing the adults before giving the other present X-men a look of both distress and fury.

Kitty gasped, and Piotr felt the need to comfort her. Awkwardly, he drew near her from behind, hoping his looming presence would not frighten the tiny girl. She reminded him of Illyana in some ways, but he regarded her as more than a sister. Even if the feelings were not reciprocal, Piotr could not help but be enthralled by the graceful beauty of the petite young lady standing near him.

"Scott, I'm afraid you are in no condition to assemble and lead a team. I value your concern for your teammates, but endangering yourself will only weaken your chances of rescuing them." Professor Xavier said.

"But _Professor_, Jean, she, our psychic link! I know it'll lead us to her and the others."

"Yes, but it will be a much stronger connection if you are well-rested and clear-headed."

Scott gave his mentor a stern look, sighing irritably. "I can't, Professor. There's no way I'm going to rest when Jean's been kidnapped! If anything happens to her I'll**-----**"

"Simmer down, Mr. Summers," Dr. McCoy interjected, gripping the younger man's shoulder. "Rash decisions will only lead to your downfall. If you really care about Miss Grey, which I know you deeply do, you will take some time to calm yourself and organize your thoughts. You can't be her knight in shining armor if you rush off too fast and forget your stead, now can you?"

With an exasperated expression, Scott turned towards Dr. McCoy but could find no words. He swayed a bit and the doctor steadied him.

"Please, Scott, go lie down. Take a shower, clean yourself up, and we will process all the information you have given us. I will search for Jean through Cerebro. Logan is already out searching for their scents. Focus on collecting yourself before coming back here. Understood?"

Scott nodded glumly but complied with his mentor's request, leaving the room with Dr. McCoy, who insisted on running a quick physical first. As the two exited the briefing room, quiet chatter ensued while the Professor spoke with Miss Ororo one-on-one.

Surprisingly, Kitty appeared in front of Piotr, demanding his attention.

She grappled his arm, staring up into his expressionless face high above her head. "Can you believe all this? I mean, the bombing, the kidnapping, everything! It's like everyone decided that today was "anit-mutants" day."

"Da," Piotr began, dubious of how he would continue. "It is…most alarming."

Kitty smiled at him oddly. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." Her giggles brought a scarlet hue to Piotr's cheeks, which he hid by turning away from the young girl and looking elsewhere in the room. The demon-looking mutant, the iceman, and the fire girl were all talking to one another. He could not remember their names. He had exchange no more than friendly greetings with anyone in the trio. The only X-men he'd actually _talked_ to were the Professor, Miss Ororo, Gambit, and little Kitty Pryde.

From the corner of his eye, Piotr found the brunette hurrying towards the group of young mutants, seeking conversation that he could not provide. Defeated, Piotr glanced towards the adults and then the younger mutants, unable to interact with either faction. Not for the first time, the soft-spoken Russian felt a twinge of isolation creeping through him. For one who never spoke aloud, hardly anyone except the empathic or observant noticed his downcast mood.

A tall blonde with soft features and a comforting smile took notice. Piotr looked up to see her standing in front of him; fleetingly, he glanced away, embarrassed at his obvious broodiness. He didn't want to appear as in need of sympathy or pity.

"You look like you're new here," the young lady said. He continued to keep his face away from her angelic one, refusing to allow her to see his shyness.

"Da, I am Colossus, no, Piotr." He gave a sheepish smile, finally turning towards her and offering his massive hand. "Piotr Rasputin, from Russia."

"Carol Danvers, from Bayville." She suppressed a giggle and a blush, taking his hand in a crushing handshake. Failing to disguise his grimace and surprise, Carol gasped and apologized. "Sorry about that! I obviously don't know my own strength."

She gave another innocent, friendly smile, and looked down at her feet, pushing a gold lock of hair back behind her ear. Piotr joined her in the feet-watching, unable to come up with anything witty or interesting to say in response.

Much to his dismay, Carol took a step closer and forced his gaze to her face. "I can relate. I'm really new here. I'm…I guess you could say I'm the newest member."

Piotr beamed, feeling like he was no longer the outsider in this tightly-knit group of mutants. "That is…good to know, Miss Danvers."

Carol giggled and looked down at her feet again, while Piotr attempted to chuckle with her and instead only exhaled audibly. He looked over at the other young mutants and saw Kitty watching him over her shoulder, distracted from the conversation. Upon noticing his gaze, her eyes widened and she pretended to be looking past him and adjusting her bangs. Then she spun around and threw her arm around the one with the tail, squeezing the blue boy.

Crestfallen, Piotr averted his gaze back to Carol and saw her smiling at him. It was a wonderful sight that soothed the awkwardness of the situation, until he felt comfortable enough to initiate conversation himself. "What are…your powers?"

"Super strength, flight, invulnerability, and a "seventh sense" perception that's pretty much the equivalent of eyes in the back of my head. I'm guessing super strength for you, too, Piotr."

"Da, super strength." He considered the term, its feel foreign on his tongue. _Super strength._ It made him sound like a comic book hero. Was that who the X-men were? Or were they just everyday people with extraordinary talents trying to fit in, using their skills much in the same way as other city officials use theirs to keep the town and its citizens safe.

"And? Don't tell me that's all," Carol chided him.

Struggling with the urge to blush, Piotr said, "And also invulnerability."

"And?"

"The ability to transform my skin into organic steel."

Carol's brow furrowed. "Steel? Hm, sounds cool…"

Piotr wanted to show her, to marvel her with his growth and shiny alloy skin. He was _Colossus_, after all, a codename that resonated with indestructibility and brute force. On the inside, he was a man named Piotr with dreams of being an artist and a niche for empathy and sensitivity. The powers he possessed did not dictate his character; Piotr had seen what power and control did to others**-----**specifically, Magneto.

"X-men," the Professor called from the front of the briefing room, "I want all of you ready and prepared for the mission. We'll be leaving in thirty minutes. You are dismissed until then."

Piotr watched the group of younger mutants disassemble and exit the room, Kitty being among them.

"Keep this to yourselves, as well. The New Mutants are not a part of this mission as of now."

The departing mutants nodded and left the room through the wide threshold leading into the corridor, while the Professor called Carol to see him.

"See ya later," Carol told Piotr, as she walked away, leaving him alone once more. With no other reason to wait around, Piotr held his head high despite the burden it took and exited the briefing room after his fellow teammates. From afar, Carol winked at him, and everything became a little brighter.

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The water was scalding**-----**somehow soothing. The steam was suffocating**-----**somehow comforting. Scott Summers allowed the fiery deluge spilling from the shower nozzle to wash away all the dirt and grime on his skin, creating a tiny eddy of dark color near the drain. He watched it circle wildly, wondering if more than just filth was disappearing down the drain, _lost forever_.

Breathing deeply, Scott's lungs filled with hot water vapor, causing him to cough but hardly care. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pausing as he watched the dirty rivers flow near his feet. Because of his ruby goggles, the blood on the tile floor looked too much like the washed away grime. He could not discern it, but he knew it was there, running down his body like crimson scars, cutting along the contours of his wet body.

His dark hair stuck to his skull like a wet mop, tendrils of bangs plastered to his cheeks and the goggles. Humorlessly, Scott wondered how odd he would look if someone stumbled in on him in the shower with the goofy goggles tinted red. They were too tight and made him self-conscience, even if he was alone in the bathroom. They were meant to keep him from ravaging everything in his line of sight.

The red eddy continued to dance near the drain, blood and filth and grime and sweat; he felt like the very fabric of his being was sinking into the pipes beneath him through the drain. His anger and rage ebbed, washed away by the burning spray guzzling into his chest and turning his complexion irritably rose-colored. The sensation told him he was alive, and as long as that was true, he would not rest without Jean. Whatever pain she was going through was infinitely worse than a too-hot shower; Scott didn't want to feel comfortable while his girlfriend waited patiently for him, probably locked up somewhere dark and cold, vulnerable.

The sound of the shattering tiles did not register with Scott, and neither did the flare of pain in his knuckles. Only the scarlet threads flowing from the broken skin caught his attention. He blinked behind the goggles, focusing on the fracture in the wall, tiles smashed by his fist. Glancing down at his raw knuckles, he saw the water integrate with his blood and turn it into a pinkish hue. The hot water seared along his cracked skin with much more discomfort. Tenderized, the nerves prickled at the heated liquid burning into the bloody cracks lacing his knuckles. He sneered through the pain and punched the wall again**-----**once, twice, and a third time before the momentum used to quickly cock back the punches threw him off balance.

He slipped and crashed onto the floor, banging his head against the glass door but not cracking it. His elbows took the brunt of the fall; pain blossomed in each joint. His foot kicked into the knob controlling the water temperature, twisting it enough to cool the surge splashing his face and filling his mouth. His tongue scalded and his face burned, Scott spit out the water and sputtered, basking in the relief at the onset of a lukewarm temperature.

Guiltily, he leaned forward and reached for the knob, intending to finish the shower with the boiling water that he had started it with. His hand stopped, hovering over the knob as the blood flowed freely from his mangled fist. Fresh blood escaped into the drain, a scarlet exodus that disturbed Scott enough to where he moved backwards along the floor and leaned his head against the wall. The showerhead's stream fell at his feet.

Looking down at himself, Scott inspected his skin aflame with irritation. The rosy complexion covered his pectoral muscles, descended along his abdomen and crept up his neck while spreading along his shoulders. He was breathing heavily, each expansion of his chest aching as the scalded skin stretched. Silently, he brought up his hand and distinguished the bloody deltas seeping from his second and third knuckles. The torn skin glowed with redness beneath the pooling blood, and, absent-mindedly, Scott placed his fist in his mouth, sucking on the tender area.

He rejected the coppery taste, spitting out a mix of saliva and blood that splattered onto the glass door. Scott watched it ooze down the clear surface, oddly captivated. Pieces of broken tiles converged at the drain, hindering the eddy and causing the dark water to pool in front of Scott's feet.

In this surreal, numbed state, Scott reached out to Jean once more, focusing on their psychic rapport above all else. He ignored the sound of the water, the taste of the blood, and the pain in his fist. He closed his eyes to the clouding steam, nullified his senses and opened up his strongest connection.

Naked and even more exhausted, feeling fetal and scattered, wet and blood-washed, Scott Summers reached out with all he had, ready to forsake his consciousness to whet his desire to hear her voice, no matter the cost. Even one word, so long as he knew and could confirm that his redheaded angel was alive…

_'Jean…'_

The painful silence stabbed through his heart, but Scott refused to let the adversity and defeat smother his clinging hopes.

_'Jean…'_

Scott slumped with his back to the wall, his fist dropping and bouncing on the tiled floor, his chin dipping onto his chest and his eyes disappearing behind the ruby goggles. Consciousness seeped out of him like the blood in his mouth, snaking down the corner of his lips, raining onto his chest and slinking over his side, touching the floor and fleeing along the tiles, disappearing down the drain, _lost forever_.

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When the cordless phone in the corner of the counter rang, Jamie Madrox was in the middle of balancing a late-night snack. He paused with an armful of potato chips, craning his head over his shoulder to glance back at the noisy device glowing in the shadows beneath the cabinetry. A familiar tingling sensation overcame him, accompanied by a light-headedness that almost lost him the potato chips in his arm. Exhaling, he felt the clone separate from his body, and with a small mental note indicating the potato chips in his arms, his newest copy relieved him of the snack while Jamie went to answer the phone. Satisfied, the youngest resident mutant's fourth duplicate followed his small army of doppelgangers, also carrying an assortment of snacks.

Jamie answered the phone on its fourth ring. The other end of the line reeked of static and heavy breathing, much to Jamie's dismay. "Hello?"

"Who's…dis?"

Frowning, Jamie replied, "Who's this?"

"Yes, yes…who is dis?"

Jamie's brow furrowed as he continued. "No, _who is this_?"

The caller cursed loudly on the other end, in between bouts of racked coughing. Realizing his plight with a tinge of embarrassment, Jamie said, "Sorry, sorry**-----**this is Jamie. May I ask who is calling?"

He'd been brought up in a mannerly household, and Jamie darkened over his forgetfulness. The caller sounded distressed and irate, but Jamie knew better than to reply with such meandering laziness. It was late, yes, but the call sounded important and the self-cloning mutant condemned himself for bypassing his manners.

"Who?"

"Jamie Madrox. Who is this?"

"…_Rogue_…" The voice was low enough as it was, even without the added static.

Though Jamie thought he heard correctly, he was confused. "Rogue?" The caller sounded like a male, though the thick accent almost eluded him.

"No…it's Remy."

Brow furrowing for the second time, Jamie scanned the name through his brain, vaguely recalling its familiarity from somewhere.

"Remy who?"

More cursing, this time in another language. At least, the caller's tone suggested vulgar language, possibly in French, which was a language Jamie could only fathom with "wee wee" and "derrière."

"Get an adult!"

"Hey," Jamie cried, shouting into the phone. Being the youngest member of the younger mutant team had lasting effects on the youth. Being treated like a child**-----**which he was**-----**but in a condescending way hit a tender spot. "I'm not a kid, Mr. Remy! Just tell me what you want**-----**I can handle it!"

More French cursing. This was getting boring and painful to listen to. It was the worst sales call he'd ever heard.

"I'm hanging up now!" Jamie declared to the caller, reveling in the empowerment fueling him. No one could treat him like a kid and expect him to comply. He would show Mr. Remy-no-last-name and hopefully keep him from calling the Institute and bugging anyone else. Jamie hated prank calls, especially when they interrupted his plans to indulge in a late-night junk food fest before bed.

"_Non, please-----_" As he clicked off the phone, Jamie grimaced regretfully. The caller sounded more desperate than infuriated and truly in need of assistance. The power of playing the dominant role, of ending a conversation on his own accord for his own reasons, had gone to his head. It wasn't often that the youthful mutant had a chance to one-up someone bothering him.

Contemplating a STAR66 hit which would redial the last number that called, Jamie was oblivious to his teammate and older mutant strolling into the kitchen.

"You know, they say thinking too hard damages your brain, kid."

"Huh?" Jamie blinked and looked around the room. "No they don't!"

Ray merely chuckled as he opened the pantry, plucking the beaded string to light up the bulb dangling in the enclosed space. "Were you talking to someone on the phone?"

"Um…yeah, some guy. Sales guy, possibly." Jamie bit his lip.

From the pantry, Ray made some derogatory remark about phone salesmen, laughed at his own joke, and knocked over some cereal boxes. Jamie wasn't listening as he stared at the cordless phone sinking into the corner of the countertop, as it was overpowered by hodgepodge messes and clutter dominating the surface.

"Hey, Jamie, you seen Jubes lately? I wanted to apologize about something."

The phone sank farther away in Jamie's perception of sight, as a horrid feeling grew from seeds of unease in his gut. He felt as if he'd just hung up on a dying man. The thought made him shudder.

"Hey, deaf boy!"

No phone salesmen would know Rogue, would they?

"Jamie, you out there?"

_Remy_…the name sounded more haunting the longer he thought about it. He was _certain_ that he'd heard the name before recently.

A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around jerkily; Ray glared down at him. "Lost in thought again? That can't be healthy, kid."

"Shut up, Ray! I'm not a stupid kid!" The response came automatically, sounding redundant after so many uses. He was almost sixteen; Jubilee and Rahne were no more than six or seven months older than him, and Ray wasn't even eighteen yet. Just because he was the only resident mutant under the age of sixteen**-----**with one month left**-----**did not warrant the abuse he received from the likes of certain teammates. He wanted to punch Ray in the face**-----**even if the guy was five inches taller and nearly thirty pounds heavier.

Just as Jamie was ready to bring in reinforcements to teach Ray a lesson in picking on a duplicating mutant, the phone rang.

Jamie jarred his hip against the side of the countertop in his dash to snatch up the phone. Taken aback, Ray watched with wide eyes as Jamie smashed his finger on the answering button, giving a strangled cry of "_Remy?_"

The other end was silent; then, a haughty laugh. "Where're your manners, boy? Or have parents stop teaching that _hello_ is the polite thing to say when you pick up the telly?"

Jamie resisted barking at the voice on the other end, and instead asked, "Who is this?" The three words were becoming his mantra for the night.

Instead of answering, the caller gave another belittling laugh, and Jamie almost slammed the phone back on its receiver base. Biting back the tides of anger, remembering how guilty he felt for hanging up on the previous caller, Jamie waited for a reply.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have time to play game with little children. I need to speak with Charles."

"Who?"

An aggravated sigh and then, "_Professor X_ as the calls himself these days. Sounds too pretentious if you ask me."

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Sheesh, kid! If I wanted to play twenty questions I would go on a bloody game show! Just let the old man know I'll be paying him a visit soon. _He_ will know who _I_ am. Make sure he gets the message, boy."

"Yeah, whatever," Jamie muttered, banging the cordless phone back into its base and sighing.

"Gee, Jamie, have you ever considered a career as a secretary? You seem to take phone calls so well."

"Pull that stick outta your butt or leave me alone, Ray!" Jamie stormed past the older boy and shouldered him out of the way. "Mess with me again, and one of my clones will smother you while you're sleeping. I don't think they can charge a clone with murder, do you?"

Ray's eyes narrowed before he broke out laughing, slapping the island countertop with his hand and bending over. A moment later, he looked up and ducked beneath a knife cutting through the air above his head. It clattered on the tile behind a bewildered Ray. "What the hell, Jamie?"

"Quit being a baby. It was only stainless steel." He reached for the knife block and slid a frighteningly shapely _mezzaluna_ out its designate space. "How good's your dodging skill?"

Electricity crackled along the older boy, bright blue energy scarring the air around his bare torso. "Quit screwing with me, Jamie. I'd electrocute you before you suffocated me."

For the third time, much to Jamie's dismay, the phone rang. He dropped the knife and pointed at the phone. "Answer it!"

"Expecting a date or something?" Ray asked, but surprisingly he conceded and walked over to pick it up. "Xavier's Institute for Gifted Freaks, Berzerker speaking."

Jamie frowned, unable to fathom the reasons to why Ray would say such a thing. Was he really bitter towards his placement and home, or was he just shooting the breeze?

"Who? Remy? Remy who?"

One moment, Jamie was across the kitchen listening intently. The next, he was on Ray's back, prying the phone from the startled mutant's hand. "_Jamie!_ What the**-----**"

He pushed off Ray, shoving the other mutant into the counter and quickly blurting an apology into the phone.

The caller**-----**Remy**-----**sounded out of breath and semi-conscious, almost delirious. "Rogue?"

"No sir, sorry. I haven't seen Rogue all night."

"Hey, she got kidnapped."

"What?" Jamie looked at Ray with wild eyes. Why was he always the last to know of these things? Some things never change, he supposed glumly. "Sorry, what, Remy-sir?"

"De Morlocks…"

"What about them?"

"What's he sayin'?"

Remy groaned and drifted away, speaking in a deathly quiet voice that made Jamie want to shoot himself in the foot for being so inconsiderate with their last phone conversation.

"Dey comin' t'…kill…"

"Kill? What're you talking about?"

"Kill who? Give me the phone, Jamie," Ray demanded, but Jamie stepped back from him and out of arm's reach.

"Kill the Morlocks?"

Ray stopped reaching and froze. His knees buckled without Jamie's notice. "Are you there? Remy, sir?"

"S'not much time…Gotta save de Morlocks…X-men…"

A splashing sound startled Jamie, and then static assaulted his eardrum. As he tore the phone away from his ear, an operator's voice came on to inform him that the line had been disconnected. Jamie wondered if Remy had dropped the phone in some kind of water. _Sewer_ water, possibly.

When Jamie looked at Ray, he found the older boy staring at the floor, his muscles quivering. Jamie remembered last year's episode with Evan's mutation and how Ray revealed his past ties with the underground group of mutants.

"'Ey, boyo! What're ye up to?" Jamie turned his head to spot his closest friend walking into the room in a simple night gown, her reddish-brown hair cascading along her shoulders. For the second time that night, Jamie forgot his manners. "What're ye starin' at, boyo?" Rahne asked, smiling. "Like ya never ever seen a lass in her nightwear?" The lycanthrope mutant giggled and glanced over at Ray, looking as if he was ready to puke on the floor. "What's the matter, Ray?"

"Rahne," Jamie started hesitantly, "do…do we know anyone named…Remy?"

The girl tilted her head at him, tapping her chin with her pointer finger. "Oh, of course! The new guy with the trench coat! Quite the charmer! Gambit's his name, or Remy, I think."

If he was more flexible, Jamie would've put his foot in his mouth and bit down hard. A wave of nausea and worry washed over him, but thankfully the countertop was within reach.

"Rahne, get the others," Ray said, his tone causing Rahne to jump. It was feeble and soft, disturbing. "Whoever's close. Tell them to grab their uniforms and we'll all change in the van. Tell them it's an emergency**-----**life or death."

"O-okay then. Meet you in the garage."

"_Go!_"

Rahne scampered out of the kitchen, nightgown flailing near her ankles. Ray looked over to the other boy. "You, too!"

Cringing, Jamie left Ray in the kitchen and dashed along the hallway to the elevator. He saw Rahne taking another route, morphing into her wolf form as she entered the foyer and darted up the staircase.

Two minutes later, Jamie hurried along the dormitory hall, knocking on doors until he reached his own. Roberto and Sam stepped out from their respective rooms, questioning the younger mutant with alarmed glances. "Grab your uniforms and meet in the garage! It's an emergency!"

Jamie disappeared into his room, stripping off his shirt and pants as he moved towards his closet. He ripped open the doors and snatched at his uniform, the sleek material durable in his hands. The Professor promised new uniforms for the older team of X-men, while the New Mutants were consent to continue using the all black body suit with matching belt, gloves, and boots. The fabric was elastic and comforting, also very breathable. Tight but not too tight, Jamie was glad that spandex was out of the question. They were form-fitting but in a good way. They didn't make him self-conscious, and at the same time, there were more reasonable perks, especially whenever the girls were battling near him.

He pulled the bottoms over his boxers and slid into the top, zipping it up over his chest and adorning the gloves and boots. He stopped, remembering that Ray had told them to grab their uniforms and change in the car. Too late to abort, Jamie scooped up the belt and rushed out the door, trailing Sam and Roberto who clutched their uniforms in their hands.

The trio reached the garage right in front of Rahne and Jubilee. Ray and Alex appeared behind them.

"Get dressed in the van."

"What?" Jubilee cried, stamping her foot down. "Either tell us what's going on or let us change in private!" She motioned between herself and Rahne.

"We're saving some old friends. Get in the back and change. Nobody will look at you."

"Oh, _right_! Like I trust you guys."

"Get it done, or stay here, Jubilee!" Ray shouted, storming off towards the driver's seat.

"What about the others?" Sam asked.

"Forget it, they're busy. Do you wanna prove yourselves or not? Come or don't come."

As Ray started the van, Jubilee and Rahne climbed in through the back, while Sam rode shot gun. Jamie, Alex, and Roberto loaded into the mid-section seats. The van shot out of the garage while narrowly missing the rising door with its roof. Jubilee screamed in the back as Ray veered to the right, throwing her against the back doors.

Jamie suppressed a laugh, reminding himself that the situation was too serious to take lightly. And the fact that Ray would stop the car, come back and beat him until he didn't find anything funny. Jamie sighed, beginning to worry about the trouble they were getting themselves into tonight.

As Ray jerked the car to the left and sped towards downtown Bayville, everyone else cried out while trying to change into their uniforms. Jamie closed his eyes and leaned back, realizing that it was going to be a very long night.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The water is still running in the bathroom. She opens the door, gently, anticipating. Steam wafts in her face, caresses her skin with vaporous strokes. It is hard to breathe, but she moves in, turning towards the steam-clouded mirror. She wipes it, leaving a clear streak the arcs downward and to the left, revealing his blurred visage in the mirror._

_The dark mane, the lightly tanned skin, the ruby-colored goggles. He is slumped in the shower beyond the glass door, modestly blocked by the towel that hangs between them. In the mirror's reflection, she sees tiny blood spots adorning the shower pane, and she wonders silently. There is no need to look at him in this state; she knows his identity, she knows his condition. She does glance briefly at the bloody whirlpool above the drain. The blood is from his hand; not excessive but apparently self-inflicted. She taps her fingers to the pane, tracing the bloodspots absent-mindedly. She reaches in, keeping her eyes on the shower nozzle, as she turns the water off. In the bathroom, the lights go off with the flick of a switch._

_In full uniform, Scott Summers steps out into the corridor, locking and closing the door behind her. The guise is much too easy. The sound of rain beginning to beat on the outer structure of the mansion sings fittingly. She can sense the storm arriving, its advent arousing her. Quietly, she moves through the corridor towards the elevator. There's not much time-----the group needs a leader. And lead she will…like the spider to the fly-----_'"Step into my parlor" said the Spider to the Fly.'

_Her assignment has begun._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Author's Note: Well, what do you think? Will the X-men be able to save their missing members? Will the New Mutants protect the Morlocks? Will the 'real' Scott usurp his doppelganger? And who is the mysterious caller who knows Charles Xavier? Too many questions? Take some guesses; the answers will pop up eventually in the story. _Please review_! I would really like to know how this is going, character-wise, plot-wise, et cetera. If you have any questions, ask! Comments and feedback are much appreciated! It lets me know how things are going on the readers' end! Feel free to make predictions or suggestions as well. Much thanks to everyone who has been reading the story; if you have but have not reviewed before, please feel free to drop one and let me know if you're enjoying the progression of the story! Thanks for reading, and please continue to enjoy!

Next Time: _Chapter VII: Grave_

The New Mutants face down their toughest battle yet, while the other X-men infiltrate the warehouse in search for their missing. And what of the captives? Lots of action and battles to come, along with more twists and turns.

-fathoms-


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